


Fifty Shades of Denim: The Real Jeremy Clarkson Story

by Jeremy James Clarkson-May (WitchOfTheWestCountry)



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Humor, Imprisonment, M/M, Multi, One True Pairing, Other, Parody, Power Play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Torture, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-08-21 07:22:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 94,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16572173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchOfTheWestCountry/pseuds/Jeremy%20James%20Clarkson-May
Summary: Empires Rise and Fall. But one shall rise again. There is One, who has been Chosen to carry on the Mighty Top Gear Dynasty...His name is Jeremy Clarkson...





	1. My Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for shits and giggles back in 2016. The records now only exist in emails from that period, but I have retrieved them because I believe they need to be seen.

To all intents and purposes, my life began when I started presenting Top Gear, so telling you that I was born Jeremy Charles Robert Clarkson on 11 th April 1960 seems somewhat irrelevant.

 

Ye Olde Top Gear was a complete shambles before I came on the scene. It had begun in 1977 as a “motoring magazine” type programme, with different presenters doing “articles” that you could watch on “TV”. For instance, Vicki Butler-Henderson might come on and tell you about the best way to put on mascara at the traffic lights, and Quentin Wilson might, I don’t know, recommend the best car for dogging.

I entered the realm of Top Gear in 1988, following in the bewildered footsteps of out-of-place celebs such as Angela Rippon and Noel Edmunds, none of whom had any business talking about cars, in my humble opinion. I was 28 years old, full of spunk and sarcasm, and they must have thought I was a young Greek god when I strode into my audition with my majestic 6ft 5 inch frame, my thick mop of curly brown hair and my natty, smart-casual ensemble of suit jacket with jeans that I carried off so well.

Naturally, within minutes they were begging me to help present their mediocre programme and turn it into something spectacular, and I was only too happy to oblige. Cars were my life. They had been for a long time. My first girlfriend had been a Ford Cortina Mk 4.

But the dream wasn’t to last. Through no fault of my own, Top Gear failed, and the programme was cancelled in 2001.

Having spent 13 years revelling in all that was Car, the cancellation came as a bit of a shock. As a Top Gear presenter, I’d been allowed to look at cars and touch them whenever I wanted. How could I exist without that liberty?

To that end, I found myself in the bar at BBC television centre, sipping at a pint of bitter and compiling a list of jobs that I could definitely do if I wanted. I was just debating the pros and cons of being an underwear model – no heavy lifting, but possibly chilly – when the peace was shattered by a man coming into the bar, weeping and sobbing in a most unmanly way.

Embarrassed by his lack of dignity, I ducked my head down and perused my list further. Would I, I wondered, need any formal training to be an astronaut…..?

I glanced up at the sound of chairs being pushed aside, and saw to my horror that, rather than hide in a corner and do his snivelling in private, the mass of tears and snot disguised as a man was making his way towards my table!!

Quickly crossing Astronaut off my list – I like travelling but I also like proper lavatories – I sat upright and prepared myself for whatever this “man” wanted.

He sat down at my table, burying his face in his hands.

“Oh, Jeremy!” he wailed. “Isn’t it terrible? Top Gear is to end, and we shall all be ruined! Oh, woe is me! Woe are all of us!”

There was an awkward silence.

“Indeed,” I agreed eventually. “And you are….?”

His head popped up indignantly.

“For God’s sake, Jeremy! It’s me! Andy.”

I was none the wiser, and smiled politely.

“Andy Wilman?” He continued.

I shrugged helplessly. I was finding the whole encounter impossibly uncomfortable, and I had no idea who this man was.

“I’m one of the Top Gear presenters!” he snapped. “I’ve been on there for 7 years! I produced your spinoff programme,  _ Jeremy Clarkson’s Motorworld _ !”

I looked down at my hands, folded on the table in front of me.

“I drove that bloody Jaguar X-Type Saloon the other week!” he shouted.

Something clicked at that.

“Andy Wilman?” I guessed, pleased with myself.

“Yes, Jeremy,” he sighed. He seemed somewhat annoyed, but at least he had stopped that god-awful blubbering.

“How can I help you then, Andy Wilman?” I asked.

“I was saying how terrible it is that Top Gear is ending,” he said. “What are we going to do? What are YOU going to do? You have a wife and kids to support.”

He was right. I’d married my second wife, Frances, in 1993 and we had 3 offspring: 2 girl-children, Emily and Katya, and a boy-child I’d amusingly named Finlo. I giggled, as I always did, at the thought of Finlo’s name.

I looked down at my list. Racing car driver was on there, and I could definitely do that, but would it have the same satisfaction for me as driving a wide variety of cars ranging from the mediocre to the magnificent? And if I was a racing car driver, I would always be winning and I didn’t much like champagne.

Very deliberately, I drew a massive cross though my entire list, before writing at the bottom in clear, capital letters: “New Top Gear Presenter”. I then underlined it. And drew a circle around it. It still didn’t look right, so I added a few exclamation marks and a biiiig tick. There.

I stood up.

“Andy Wilman,” I intoned in my flawless bass/tenor/whatever. “I am going to save Top Gear. And YOU – “ I pointed a stern finger at him “ – are going to help me.”


	2. The New Top Gear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy selects a new co-presenter

Time and tide waits for no man, and there was no time like the present. I wasted no time in navigating the corridors of BBC Television Land in search of The Execs.

Andy Wilman trailed along anxiously in my wake, repeatedly asking me what I intended to do once I found them, but I could not reply. I had not planned my pitch: I would know what to say when I got there.

The Execs were notoriously hard to find, but I used my animal instincts to track them down. I knew when I was getting closer. The temperature rose as I spiralled into the centre of the building, the furnishings becoming more and more luxurious. Guards began to appear in doorways, uniformed, carrying spears. They eyed me suspiciously but made no move to hinder my progress. That is, until I reached the heart of the building and the lair of The Execs….

There was a door ahead of us, huge, heavily jewelled and gilded. Two beefy guards stood on either side, alert, their weapons poised. I could not afford to stop and think about my next course of action. Instead, I leapt into action and charged ahead.

The guards attempted to bar my entry, crossing the spears in front of the door, but I smashed them aside and strode through. Andy Wilman yelped behind me as one of them grabbed his arm and proceeded to wrestle with him. Undeterred, I bravely entered the room.

The room beyond the door was a vast, opulently decorated cavern, with golden torches burning on the walls. A huge, varnished table stood in the centre. Sat around it were a variety of middle-aged and late-middle-aged men, dressed in heavy velvet robes and adorned with gold and jewels. As I crossed the deep pile carpet towards them, one of them rose, and I knew I was in the presence of the Director General.

I stopped where I was respectfully.

“Greetings, Oh Great One,” I intoned. “I am Jeremy Charles Robert Clarkson, and I have a proposal for you.”

Behind me, Andy Wilman burst through the door, closely pursued by the guards. The Director General stopped the guards with a gesture, then shooed them away with a flick of his wrist. Andy Wilman scurried to the safety of my side.

“Greetings, Jeremy Charles Robert Clarkson,” the DG said. His voice was quiet but carried an unmistakable air of authority. “We have heard much of you, and welcome you to our Inner Circle. What, pray, is your proposal?”

Now was my chance. I pushed back my shoulders, drawing myself up to my full impressive height, and lifted my chin proudly.

“I propose that I relaunch Top Gear, and that I make it Better.”

The Execs around the table began a low murmuring at this, but the Director General silenced them with a glance before staring at me long and hard. I maintained eye contact, knowing it was vital not to back down at this point or I would risk losing his respect.

“You can do this?” He asked.

“I can,” I promised.

“Very well, Jeremy Charles Robert Clarkson,” the Director General said finally. “Go. Relaunch Top Gear. Make it better. You have one year to produce the new look show. But mark this: If you should fail – if your ratings should fall below what Top Gear has sustained in the past – you shall pay for it with your life!”

I heard Andy Wilman gasp, but I had suspected this much. It was pretty much a standard contract in these situations.

With a final bow, we withdrew from the dank, incense-smelling room and retreated to the brightness of the corridor.

“Well, that went well,” remarked Andy Wilman.

“Yes. Yes it did,” I agreed. “Fancy a pint?”

 

Back in the sanity of the BBC bar, we sat discussing our plans over pints of bitter. I still hadn’t really thought through what I was going to do to make New Top Gear better than Old Top Gear, but I knew the betterness would involve Me.

Now that his future was reprieved, Andy Wilman was much more upbeat and business-like.

“So what’s the plan, Jeremy?” he asked excitedly. “How are you going to play this? Who are you going to be presenting with?!”

I chuckled.

“Calm down, Andy Wilman,” I said indulgently. “Actually, I was wondering if  _ you’d _ like to present with me.”

“Me?” he looked surprised. “That’s a great honour, Jeremy. But to be honest, I think my presenting days are over. I’m not pretty enough. But I did enjoy producing your spinoff programme, so if it’s all the same to you, I’d very much like to  _ produce _ New Top Gear.”

“Very well,” I said magnanimously. “Produce you shall. But I will need at least one other presenter to aid me, and share some of the workload.”

“I think there should be three of you,” said Andy Wilman thoughtfully. “Three is a good number for presenters. How about Quentin Wilson and Tiff Needell…?”

He froze under the iciness of my glare.

“Never!” I vowed, hoarsely. “I want someone new. Someone untainted and pure. Someone who will look up to me and be grateful of the opportunity I have bestowed upon them.”

“Okay, so I’ll get together a group of men and women – “

“Men only!” I thundered.

Andy Wilman stuttered nervously.

“B-but I thought – “

“Men only,” I repeated. “This is a car show, Andy Wilman. Never forget that.”

And to his credit, he never did.

 

Things moved fast after that. Andy Wilman turned out to be good at producing. I’d forgotten that.

The first thing he did, at my request, was to build me a portable throne that I could sit on to relax and to mull over important problems. It was on this throne I was sitting when I chose my first Co-Presenter.

Andy Wilman had gathered together a group of nobodies and put them in a room full of props behind a special mirror through which we could observe them whilst remaining unseen. I’d seen this type of mirror on TV cop shows and thought they were really cool. Then he placed my throne behind the glass where I could observe them in comfort, and we both watched them for a while.

Left to their own devices, unaware that they were being watched and evaluated, it quickly became clear who was going to be suitable and who wasn’t. The first to be eliminated were the ones who came up to the mirror and spent too long preening and admiring themselves. Next, we rejected the ones who started fighting, a man who had picked up some cooking utensils and had pretended to start hosting his own cookery show, and a couple of men in the corner who were making love.

Of the ones that were left, some were more promising than others. I liked the ugly ones particularly, as they were less likely to steal my screen time, but there was one little fellow who caught my attention despite his good looks. He had gone off by himself and found a box full of toy cars, placed there deliberately by Andy Wilman for just such a purpose. He was engrossed in a game of cars, pushing them around a mat decorated with cartoon roads and scenery, and although I couldn’t hear him, I could see his lips vibrating as he made car noises.

“That one there,” I said to Andy Wilman. “Who is he?”

“That?” Andy Wilman consulted a clipboard. “That is Richard Hammond. Born December 1969. Went to Art School. He’s presented on some local BBC radio stations.”

“Have him brought to me,” I ordered.

Richard Hammond turned out to be a cute little thing. At 5ft 5 he stood a foot shorter than me, which meant he had to physically look up to me. I liked that straight away. The other thing I liked was his enthusiasm.

“Hello, little fellow,” I remarked as he was brought before me. “Do you know who I am?”

He gasped at the sight of me.

“I do!” he squeaked. “You’re The Jeremy Clarkson of Top Gear fame!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at his naked awe. I found it very endearing.

“That’s right. Do you like Top Gear?” I asked him.

“Oh, yes sir,” he said vehemently. “I love cars! And I think it’s a dreadful shame it’s being cancelled.”

“Ah, but what if it wasn’t cancelled?” I suggested. “What if I, Jeremy Charles Robert Clarkson, were to relaunch Top Gear and make it Better?”

“Ooooh! That would be…. Well, it would be super-duper!” he exclaimed, jiggling excitedly.

I glanced at Andy Wilman. We were both smiling, and he nodded at me almost imperceptibly. We were in agreement.

“Tell me, Richard: Would you like to present New Better Top Gear with me?”

“Would I?!! Wowweee! That would be great!” he enthused. “Can I? Can I, sir?” he begged, his eyes shining with the innocence of youth.

“Do you know what, Richard?” I said. “I think you can!”

“Yippee!!!” he shouted, punching the air and jumping up and down before running round in circles with his arms out, doing airplane impressions.

Andy Wilman and I watched him, satisfied we’d made the right choice. The first co-presenter had been chosen. 


	3. See Saw, Hammond and Dawe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy doesn't want a 3rd presenter, but nevertheless one has been chosen for him...

Richard Hammond was so endearing we spent a lot of time together. I quickly dubbed him The Hamster, not just because it was a play on his name and because of his small stature, but because I kept catching him stuffing sweets into his cheeks to store for later when he thought I wasn’t watching.

I knew we eventually had to choose a third presenter, but for the time being I was happy to kick back with Hamster and do some bonding.

Andy Wilman was busy organising studio time and film crews and all the practical stuff, while I was drawing story boards for some amusing “improvised” reviews and making a list of cars I wanted to drive. When I tired of that, I’d relax on my throne and watch Hammond play.

The Hamster was a perfect companion, as he never got bored of my stories: He’d often come and sit at the foot of my throne and beg me for tales of the Old Days at Old Top Gear. I’d regale him with my endless supply of anecdotes, and he’d gasp in awe when I recounted how I’d arm-wrestled Tiff Needell for 2 days straight, resulting in a dislocated shoulder for Tiff and some minor bruising to my thumb.

His favourite story, though, had to be the altercations between myself and my arch-nemesis Quentin Wilson. I’d always hated his slimy ways and stupid face, despite our apparently easy screen relationship, so when we had an argument I’d often just wrestle him to the ground and fart on his head. Hammond laughed like a loon when I reminisced about flushing Stinky Wilson’s head down the port-a-loo on location one hot day.

Such an idyll couldn’t last, however, and the fateful day came when Andy Wilman came and knelt at the foot of my throne and informed me that the day of the Third Presenter had come.

I sighed and got to my feet, sweeping my ermine-trimmed robe behind me.

“Very well,” I told him resignedly. “Show me the candidates, and I shall choose one.”

At that, Andy Wilman hung his head in a remarkably guilty fashion, immediately arousing my suspicions. Filled suddenly with a dire foreboding, I snatched up my broadsword from where it was propped at my side, and pointed it at the cringing producer.

“What?!” I thundered. “What is the meaning of your sorry demeanour?”

Andy Wilman flung himself prostrate at my feet, sobbing uncontrollably, as was his wont. I glared at the recumbent man, not sure whether to feel ire, revulsion or compassion. In the background, sensing trouble, Hammond had hidden himself badly under a small blanket, his feet and legs sticking out comically.

“Forgive me, Jeremy!” bawled Andy Wilman. “It was not my fault! It was the Higher Ups!”

That gave me pause. If he spoke the truth, however bad the news I would not be able to blame Andy Wilman. The Higher Ups weren’t quite on the same league as The Execs, but they were certainly not to be trifled with. I lowered my sword, filled with trepidation, and waited for Andy Wilman to calm himself down.

Eventually, he was able to verbalise his troubles.

“The Higher Ups have already chosen a Third Presenter, Jeremy,” he sniffed.

My heart sank.

“A relative?” I asked.

“Sort of,” he shrugged. “Someone’s daughter’s boyfriend’s mate. His name is Jason Dawe.”

I bristled.

“I don’t like that name,” I growled. “It sounds shit.”

Hammond peeped out from under his blanket.

“I don’t like it either!” he chirped loyally, and I rewarded him with a warm grin.

My sunny expression disappeared as I turned my attention back to Andy Wilman.

“What do you know of this Jason Dawe?” I snorted again at the name. If his first name was Jack, he would be a jackdaw! Ha! Stealing shiny things from ladies’ windowsills….I resolved to Google jackdaws later to see if I was getting confused with magpies*.

“Very little,” Andy Wilman was replying to my nearly-forgotten question. “All I know is he was born in Cornwall, not sure of the year. Oh – and he’s fat.”

“Fat?” My ears perked up. “How fat? On a scale of Kate Moss to Georgie Godwin (The Fattest Man in Britain at this point)?”

Andy Wilman considered.

“I’d say….Chris Moyles?”

“Hmm….” I stroked my chin meditatively. “This might work in our favour. Andy Wilman, bring me my quill and some parchment! I have some episodes to storyboard!”

Andy Wilman brought me the things I’d asked for, plus a writing desk and some snacks. I dismissed him, then ruffled Hammond’s hair and tucked some pennies in his pocket for him to buy some sweets so I could work undisturbed.

Whatever this “Jason Dawe” fellow turned out to be like, I did not want him in my New Top Gear. I hadn’t chosen him. But I could not argue with The Higher Ups, so I had to be clever in my plotting. And as you will know by now: I am very clever indeed…….

 

Not many people remember Jason Dawe as the Third Presenter on New Top Gear, and that is how it should be. I do not want his memory sullying what has become so beautiful and perfect in the years since.

He lasted only one series, for which Hammond and myself are eternally grateful. He was a bully, a boor and a bore. He was forever telling Hammond to “Pull his finger”, and poor trusting Hamster fell for his vileness every time. Dawe would belch parts of the alphabet after meals, trying to see if he could beat his own personal record of getting to the letter “T” in one burp. He would wipe bogies on the dashboards of cars he was test-driving, and wouldn’t pull the flush after having a shit because he said he didn’t like the noise. Worst of all, he was dreadfully unkind to Hammond when I wasn’t around to protect him, pushing him around and giving him Chinese burns till he cried. Luckily, my brilliance ridded us of his presence. My plan was simple: If he was a fat man, I would make him drive small cars. Then he would look silly.

By contrast, Hammond and I drove nicer cars and said funnier, scripted things, making us look even better and highlighting how great we were compared to Dawe.

It was subtle, and probably hardly anyone noticed my scheme, but it worked and we were free……

…..until the dastardly Higher Ups replaced him with someone else I hadn’t chosen!

  
  
  


* Jackdaws are apparently the smallest member of the crow family in the UK, and whilst they are supposed to steal shiny objects, there is no evidence of them doing so in the wild.


	4. Anal Rape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy lets down his walls and they are immediately abused

Before I begin to tell you about the new Third Presenter chosen by the Higher Ups, I feel I must discuss some of the changes I implemented in New Top Gear.  
It was an exciting time for motoring TV and I wanted to involve as many people as possible in the bright new dawn. This included buying a Suzuki Liana for £9995 and creating a segment called Star in a Reasonably Priced Car. This way, I could invite all my show-biz pals on the programme to drive it, thus turning part of New Top Gear into a chat show. I had dabbled with my own chat show, “Clarkson”, in the last couple of years of the 90s, so I was a dab hand at chatting to celebs, and the move was a stroke of brilliance.  
However, these stars weren’t amazing drivers like me, and they needed training to learn how to drive around our test track. I tried to do it, but soon lost patience, calling one test celebrity a blithering idiot and trying to stab them with a spoon in the cafeteria*.  
After this incident, Andy Wilman suggested we employ someone else to teach them. I was uncertain at first, as I thought this would essentially be like having a Fourth Presenter, but Hamster gave me an idea one day whilst he was running about in his Batman outfit. I immediately summoned Andy Wilman to tell him my idea.  
“He will be anonymous,” I announced. I could tell Andy Wilman was impressed by my brilliant idea, and Hammond exploded into applause in the background.  
“Good idea, Jeremy. But how will we achieve this?” asked Andy Wilman respectfully.  
I brought out the crash helmet I’d purchased to show him. It had a blacked out visor, and when I donned it I would have been immediately unrecognisable, were it not for my magnificent frame. When I took it off, Andy Wilman was nodding thoughtfully.  
“Yes, yes. This could work….” He mused. “We employ a trained racing driver and make it part of their contract that they never reveal their true identity. Well done, Jeremy!”  
Andy Wilman clapped me on the back. I allowed him this brief over-familiarity just this once, as I could tell he was pleased. If he did it again, though, I would have to cut off his hand.  
The three of us sat down and brainstormed names for our prospective anonymous driver. Hammond wanted to call him Car Man, and was so excited by the idea that he immediately ran off and grabbed his crayons to design Car Man’s outfit.  
Andy Wilman thought of “Interceptor”, because it sounded a bit sinister, like “Terminator”, and because of police interceptors, but then I remembered a dreadful game show of the same name in the 80s hosted by Annabel Croft, so that was also a bust.  
Then, in a flash of inspiration, it came to me.  
“I have it!” I bellowed. “I know His name!”  
Andy Wilman and Hammond looked at me expectantly.  
“We shall call him ‘The Stig’,” I intoned.  
Andy Wilman, if I’m honest, looked a bit perplexed, but I wasn’t about to explain my reasoning to a subordinate such as him.  
And so The Stig was born.

We fleshed out The Stig’s character: He would be impassive, like the Terminator, and he would never speak. He would be dressed entirely in black, with a black onesie and black helmet.  
Wait a moment, Jeremy! I hear you say. What do you mean, black? We all know The Stig wears white!  
To which I reply: Shut up, you ignorant buffoons! You speak of the traitor Ben Collins! He was the first to wear the white suit, before he ruined everything. Did you not know that the first Stig wore black?  
Oh course you don’t. Or maybe you did, but you’ve forgotten.  
I will forgive you if you’ve forgotten. I’ve done my best myself to forget the first Stig. Because it turned out the reason he wore black was because he was evil. And that’s why I had to kill him.

At this point, I shall pause whilst you Google The Stig and read all about Perry McCarthy in Wikipedia. You will read about how he was “outed” by the tabloids early in 2003 and eventually admitted his involvement publicly later on that year. And you will probably notice that Perry McCarthy is still alive.  
This is because Perry was a personal friend of mine who posed openly as The Stig as a special favour to me, deliberately letting those imbecile reporters “uncover” his identity.  
The real Original Stig shall remain ever nameless, and may he rot forever in hell for his cruelty.

Despite the light-hearted nature of this chapter’s subtitle, there is a painful story behind it. So painful that I was sore for days afterwards, could only eat soft foods and had to sit on a “doughnut”-shaped cushion.

It all began one fateful summer’s day. The rest of the crew had finished work and gone home. I had remained behind to do some work on the Cool Wall. It was blisteringly hot, and I sweltered in the dank cavern that was the empty studio. Confident I was alone, I unselfconsciously stripped off my shirt as I worked, gluing magnets onto the backs of pictures of cars.  
The idea of the Cool Wall was that me and Hammond would hold up a picture of a car and we would decide if it was “Cool” or not. Based on the result, the picture would be placed somewhere on a metal wall. There were four categories: Seriously Uncool, Uncool, Cool and Sub Zero. (Andy Wilman had assured me the word “Cool” was still cool.)  
Rather amusingly, Hammond and I would often stage a squabble over our differing opinions, and scuffle as we tried to place the car picture where we thought it should go. I would place it really high where Hammond couldn’t reach it, he would put it close to the floor where I found it difficult to bend because of my bad back etc. It was hilarious.  
Anyway – I’d stripped off my shirt….. I was so engrossed in my work, I didn’t hear the scrape of a footstep nearby and I continued at my task without realising I was being watched. It was only when I glued the final magnet on and rose from my car-related stupor that I heard the low breath of another human person in the vicinity.  
Startled, I dropped a picture of a Honda Civic (Seriously Uncool) and clapped my hands over my nipples to hide my nakedness. I felt vulnerable and defiled by the invisible gaze I could now feel crawling over my soft, bare skin.  
“Who’s there?” I demanded, and was horrified to hear that the authoritative boom I normally spoke in was muted and querulous.  
Footsteps neared me, and as the intruder approached I understood why I hadn’t seen him cloaked in the shadows: It was the Stig, clad in his black, and he strode towards me like Darth Vader.  
“You!” I gasped.  
His helmet inclined in a nod, and even though I couldn’t see his face behind the tinted visor, I could feel his eyes violating me.  
“You should leave,” I insisted, turning my back to him and fumbling for my shirt, cast carelessly onto the floor. I had stripped it off with little regard to donning it again, so the sleeves were inside out and the cuffs still fastened. As I struggled to put the garment to rights, I felt his hands on my waist, and I froze when a gloved finger traced its way up my quivering spine.  
To this day, I cannot explain why I did not put up a fight. I have no doubt I could have overpowered him had I put my mind to it, but a strange lethargy overtook my limbs. The shirt dropped from my nerveless fingers and I meekly allowed him to turn me round to face him.  
I watched with a dry mouth and a racing heart as he stripped off his gloves – all the better to feel me – and removed his helmet. His face was flushed with desire and the heat, his hair mussed. A faint line of moisture beaded his upper lip, and without thinking I leaned forward and licked it off. It was this action that truly made me complicit in my fate.  
We kissed, a savage locking of lips and tongue and teeth that would have shocked me with its roughness were I not near swooning. His powerful hands twisted themselves into the soft curls of my tousled mane, forcing my head down to his level, and I heard a faint moaning sound that I later realised came from my own throat.  
Deep down inside, my spirit tried to rebel against this treatment, but I’m ashamed to say my body submitted. We sank down onto the hard floor and he took me there, in the semi-darkness, our cries echoing throughout the vastness of the empty studio.

He left almost immediately afterwards, seeming disinterested, dressing swiftly and matter-of-factly. I was disappointed, as I’d wanted to cuddle and indulge in a little teasing afterplay, but he did not even meet my gaze as he zipped up his suit.  
“Call me?” I found myself pleading, and immediately wanted to swallow those words as he sneered at me with undisguised contempt. As his lip curled, I struggled to hold back my tears. My hands and knees were raw from the concrete floor, my lips bruised from the ferocity of his kisses, and my back passage felt like the Channel Tunnel. All this I had suffered for his sake, and it was evident it had meant little to him beyond his immediate physical needs.  
He turned on his heel, marching away without a backward glance, and as I watched his retreating back, it became very clear to me that I had just been raped.

Hammond and Andy Wilman saw to my intimate needs in those harrowing days afterwards, putting cream on my wounded bits and reading to me for hours on end. I must have learned every page of Hammond’s “Learn the Alphabet” book by heart! They were sweet to me and, even though I did not divulge the exact details of what had occurred, they seemed to know.  
I could not go back to work whilst the Stig was there. I could not bear to think of bumping into him during filming, or even of watching him on a monitor as he drove cars around the track. I burned with hatred and a desire for revenge that was all-consuming. Lying there on my sickbed, I vowed that I would destroy him as he had destroyed my anus! I would hurt him worse than he had hurt my feelings, and then I would end him like the Execs had ended Old Top Gear.

Obviously, I can’t divulge the precise details of what transpired in the once-again empty studio one afternoon a few weeks later. It was bloody and messy and violent but ultimately very satisfying. Andy Wilman helped me, but we kept our actions from Hammond as we wished to keep him as innocent as possible.  
I also cannot tell you how we disposed of the body, but that too was extremely cathartic. Once I knew he had gone, that he was obliterated, that he could no longer hurt me, I felt a peace return to my soul that had been absent for weeks.  
As I washed the blood from my hands and face and naked body, I found myself humming a jaunty tune, and Andy Wilman smiled as he dialled Perry McCarthy’s number.  
Everything was going to be ok.

 

* For legal reasons, I cannot divulge the identity of said celebrity.


	5. The Unwanted New Third Presenter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having got rid of the Boor, Jeremy is forced to accept a possible Bore

I finished the first series with a sense of well-being: I had rid myself of Jason Dawe, the uncivilised oaf that had been thrust upon me, and also, rather more permanently, rid myself of the original Stig, an unscrupulous sexual predator. Questions would be asked about his disappearance in the months to come, but for now Perry McCarthy was filling the gap left by his obliteration most admirably.

Word had come down that the Execs were pleased with the New Top Gear format: Ratings were higher than they had conceived of, far exceeding those of Old Top Gear, and I was to be rewarded with lots of money and not being killed.

Life was good. Series 2 was in the pipeline, but Hammond and I took a brief holiday in a lakeside cottage to recuperate. We had a wonderful time, paddling in the shallow water in our bathing suits, having splash fights and whipping each other on the bottom with wet towels as we chased each other back to the cottage. In the evenings we would play my special version of Scrabble, which involved only using words to do with cars and driving (proper nouns were allowed under these circumstances as long as they were relevant).

Hammond earned some pocket money during our time here, as I gave him “jobs” to allow him some measure of independence. In the morning, he would fill the kettle, although he wasn’t allowed to turn the switch on because of the electricity. In the evening, he poured my beer from the bottle into my engraved beer glass. If he did especially well, I gave him an extra 10 pence and he was allowed to have a sip.

Such idyllic pleasure could not last, however, and we eventually had to return to the hurly burly of Top Gear life. I had written several episodes of series 2 whilst holidaying, each filled with my usual brilliant insight and witty banter, and my first port of call was to see Andy Wilman to present them to him.

I strode into his office. It was large, bright and airy, although not as large and bright and airy as mine, and his didn’t have a throne of a mini-fridge in it. He had an American-style water cooler instead, and an ergonomically designed keyboard.

“Andy Wilman,” I boomed as I walked in. “I have written the episodes you begged of me to write. They are even better and more expensive than the ones in season 1.”

“That’s wonderful, Jeremy,” he stammered, and cast his gaze to the floor in such a way that I knew something was wrong.

“Damn your eyes, man!” I cursed. “Something is amiss! Tell me what it is immediately!”

This time, he did not fling himself to my feet, a fact I duly noted.  _ Was he becoming too sure of himself? _ I wondered privately. I resolved to keep an eye on him, lest he become blasé.

“I’m afraid the Higher Ups have shit on us again, Jeremy,” Andy Wilman confessed. “They’ve chosen the new third presenter for us.”

“Hell’s teeth!” I bellowed, momentarily turning into a caricature of Brian blessed. “Who have they foisted upon us now? Someone’s cousin’s dog-groomer’s mechanic?”

“No,” said Andy Wilman, consulting a piece of paper. “His name is James May.”

I sank down into a leather swivel chair, my strength sapped by despair.

“James. May.” I tasted the name, rolled it around on my tongue and considered its attributes. “I do not like this name,” I growled. “James begins with a J, like Jason Dawe and….. _ Him! _ Will I be forever cursed by Jays? And May! May is a silly name! It is a girl’s name, and a month in Spring!”

I got to my feet, snarling, and proceeded to prance around the office in an impression of a gay person.

“ _ Ooh, I’m James May _ ,” I mocked in a camp falsetto. “ _ I have a May pole and I’m covered in spring flowers _ !”

Andy Wilman sat at his desk impassively, patiently waiting for my rage to subside. I stopped by the water-cooler, panting, and took advantage of my location to help myself to a refreshing paper cup of water.

“What do we know of this  _ James May _ ?” I sneered, draining my water in one gulp and screwing up the cup in one powerful fist.

“Born James Daniel May in January of 1963. Worked for  _ Autocar _ magazine but was sacked for a prank in 1992 when he put a hidden message in one issue. Was briefly co-presenter of Old Top Gear in 1999….”

“Enough!” I held up a hand. “I’ve heard all I can stand. He sounds like a trouble maker. And he was on Old Top Gear? Who did he fuck to get this gig?”

Andy Wilman shrugged.

“Possibly everyone,” he admitted. “I’ve heard he’s quite a slut.”

“Well, that’s all we need!” I huffed. “Some smooth operator coming in here, distracting everyone by flashing his knickers and seducing the camera crew. He’d just better keep his hands and other bits off my Hamster, or he’ll go the way of the Stig!”

“I agree,” soothed Andy Wilman. “But that may not be a problem. I’ve heard he likes powerful men….”

I stood, lifting my chin proudly.

“He can sniff around all he wants,” I declared. “He’s not getting inside  _ my _ jeans!”

With that, I flounced out of the office.*

  
  


* Possibly not flounced. That sounds a bit gay, and I’m not a gay. I probably stormed out, or swept out. That sounds better.

 


	6. James. May.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy doesn't like the new presenter.
> 
> Or does he...?

My opinion of this mysterious new presenter didn’t improve when I found out that the Higher Ups had originally wanted him in the first place, instead of Jason Dawe. May, however, had declined the honour as he wasn’t sure  _ New Top Gear would succeed! _

This knowledge made me furious, and suddenly I couldn’t wait to meet him so I could give him a piece of my mind. Who did he think he was to doubt me, Jeremy Clarkson? And now he had come running back to be a part of my dream once he had assured himself of its success? For days before I met him, I was troubled by daydreams in which I slowly throttled him to death.

In these daydreams he was faceless, however, as I couldn’t picture the man. He had worked on Old Top Gear? Then why couldn’t I remember him? I was confused, and this too angered me as I am rarely confused.

 

Few of us can pinpoint the moment our lives changed forever, and even fewer recognise the moment as it arrives, but my first glimpse of James May as the third presenter of New Top Gear* was so fraught with a turmoil of emotions I recall it with absolute clarity. I cannot say in all honesty that I knew, at that precise instant, that this man was to alter the path of my life irrevocably, but I was certain the moment was remarkable. I just could not pinpoint how.

To look at him, one wouldn’t think that James May was anything exceptional. When he walked into the studio that day wearing a faded paisley shirt over his paunch and a pair of old denims I glanced at him for only a second before dismissing him summarily. He was, I suspected, a new member of the crew, and therefore beneath my attention.

But something made me look again. Some aura, some demeanour perhaps, grabbed me by the eyeballs and forced me to return my gaze.

_ Look at him!  _ My psyche seemed to insist.  _ Behold him! _

So I did, and still saw nothing spectacular. Just a man a scant couple of years younger than myself, but without my august stature, and a mane of subtly greying hair that was slightly too long for a man of his age.

I wanted to feel anger. I wanted to feel contempt. I wanted to poke fun at his hair, laugh at his middle-aged spread. But I couldn’t. This was the man who had doubted me, had turned down an opportunity most people would have killed for in refusing to work with me, and I could not summon the emotion necessary. I froze to the spot as he approached me, unable to move, unable to form a coherent thought. People greeted him as he passed, and he acknowledged them with the barest minimum of expression, retaining his politeness without engaging their conversation or turning his attention from me. His eyes were fixed on me, and me alone.

He stopped a foot away from me, the merest hint of a sardonic smile playing over his lips, though his eyes laughed merrily. We regarded each other for an unknowable period of time – probably only a couple of seconds though – before he spoke.

“Jeremy Clarkson, I presume?” he intoned.

His voice sounded the music. Slightly nasal music, to be sure, but some people like that kind of thing. Look at Bob Dylan’s popularity, after all.

I was mesmerised. I tried to think of something equally amusing to respond with, and from the very depths of my soul rose a sentence worthy of reply. As I opened my mouth to utter it, I sensed the attention of many, as all around us members of the crew watched and listened with apprehension.

“James May?”

My voice echoed in the sudden stillness.

“Aye,” he replied.

“Your hair looks like a fucking girl’s. Get it cut, you bloody hippy.”

 

The smile left his mouth, but it did not leave his spirit, if you know what I mean. He nodded, as though that had been the least he was expecting, and turned away to greet Hammond, who was loitering nearby trying to look inconspicuous.

May bent down so his face was level with Hammond’s, putting his hands against his knees to steady himself.

“Hello, little fellow,” he said kindly. “You must be Richard Hammond, eh?”

Hamster looked at his feet, scraping the toe of his shoe against the floor. He nodded shyly, tucking his chin down onto his chest.

“I thought you must be,“ continued May. “Someone told me there was a handsome, clever little chap working here at Top Gear, and you certainly fit the description. And how old might you be?”

“33 and a half, sir,” answered Hammond, twisting the hem of his t-shirt nervously.

“33 and a half? My word!” May raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were at least 40, you look so grown up!”

Hammond raised his head at this, his eyes almost perfect circles of wonder.

“You did?” he squeaked.

“Certainly,” May nodded. “And I bet a big boy like you likes sweeties, don’t you?”

Hammond’s face split into a broad grin and he nodded enthusiastically, the mention of his favourite treat shaking him from his bashfulness.

“Well, look what I have here,” invited May. “A great big bag of Haribo! Would you like them?”

“Oh, yes please, sir, I really really would!” gabbled Hammond, grabbing them from May’s hand.

I found my voice.

“What do you say, Hamster?” I admonished.

“Thank you,” squealed Hammond, and rushed off into a corner to eat his sweets.

May turned to face me, straightening up as he did so. I had to admit that he couldn’t be all bad, if Hammond liked him. Hammond had an instinct about people, and could tell if they were kind or not, rather like a dog.

“Well played, May,” I conceded.

“Please,” he drawled. “Call me James.”

  
  
  


* I’m going to stop calling it New Top Gear from now on. We all know which Top Gear I’m referring to and, quite honestly, I feel Old Top Gear would be best forgotten. My Top Gear is the only Top Gear.


	7. Working Relationships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forced to work with the mesmerising James, Jeremy attempts to distance himself, with mediocre results

Whatever my personal views, I am a consummate professional, and had to put my feelings aside while we were presenting the show. I introduced James as though I really were welcoming him to the programme, and such is my acting ability I’m sure I fooled everyone who watched.  
Behind the scenes, however, I tried to have as little to do with the man as possible. His charisma was like hypnotism, and I was worried that if I spent too much time with him I would fall under his spell and become his simpering little bitch. Regardless of this James constantly tried to engage with me and at times the studio resembled a sitcom with me hurriedly hiding behind chairs whenever he came into the room.  
Hammond was young and silly and impressionable though, and began to follow James around like a little puppy while James tossed sweets to him and allowed him to sit upon his knee. This rankled me a great deal, and I did my best to discourage any contact between James and Hamster despite the technical difficulties.  
These circumstances could not continue. I knew this. Andy Wilman knew this. James May probably suspected this. Hammond had no idea this was even a problem.  
Through Andy Wilman I arranged a formal meeting between myself and James in one of the largest conference rooms in BBC Television Centre. We sent Hammond to the cinema to keep him out of the way and I carefully set up the huge conference table with two glasses of water and two chairs at opposite ends. I was still determined to keep as much distance between myself and James as possible.  
I took my seat at the head of the table and waited for James to arrive. For some reason, I was incredibly nervous, and I kept checking my reflection in the polished surface of the table top. My palms were sweating, and I rubbed them against the thighs of my Levi’s.  
The door swung open, like the saloon doors in a western movie, and James May stood framed in the doorway. I could not see his features, as the light was behind him, but the glowing filaments of his hair shone like a halo. Ever aware of the drama he was causing, James hesitated there for a few seconds – seconds that made me catch my breath and seemed like an eternity – before entering the room.  
My heart was beating much too fast, and I couldn’t understand why. It must have been a residue of the anger I felt towards him, I reasoned.  
James sauntered towards the table, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, his hips swaying. His grace was effortless, and I could not help but admire it despite my resentment. He sashayed over to where the glass of water sat, far, far away from where I was, then looked across at me. That damnable smile was on his face again, mocking me and enchanting me at the same time as, without a word, he picked up the glass, grabbed the back of the chair, and proceeded to bring them both towards me.  
I cursed him as I realised his intention. Would his saucy disrespect ever cease?  
He got about a foot away from me before he stopped and very deliberately placed the glass of water on the table. Then he turned the chair round and straddled it, folding his arms along the back. He looked way beyond cool, and I was kicking myself that I hadn’t thought to sit that way myself. I knew that method had a chance of backfiring, as it was possible to sit on one’s own testicles, but he settled his crotch against the seat with ease and favoured me with a cheeky grin.  
“There,” he said. “That’s a lot cosier, isn’t it?”  
He had seen through my ruse as if it were a thin, wet t-shirt against an erect nipple. To save face, I had no choice but to continue as if nothing was amiss.  
“I expect you’re wondering why I’ve called you here,” I began. My voice was crisp and business-like.  
“Not really,” he replied languorously.  
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “Pray, share your theories with me.”  
I pushed my chair away from the table, angling it slightly towards James and deliberately sitting with my legs wide apart to intimidate him. I’d also taken the precaution of ensuring that my chair was higher than his, subliminally reinforcing my superiority.  
Perhaps sensing this, James sat higher in his seat and spread his own legs a little wider. The rails of the chair back framed his crotch perfectly, and I could see the outline of his penis under the denim.  
“You don’t like me,” challenged James. “You don’t like me because you had no control over hiring me, and you don’t want me on your programme. Am I right?”  
I was surprised at his insight. I nodded.  
“I thought as much. It’s understandable, Jeremy.”  
I cringed at his familiarity. A person had to earn the right to call me by my first name! I preferred subordinates and strangers to refer to me as “Mr Clarkson” or “Sir” until I gave them permission to address me otherwise. Hammond sometimes called me “Daddy” by accident, but I always let that pass. Before I could protest, James continued.  
“Look, Jeremy, I don’t want there to be any hard feelings between us because of circumstances that are beyond our control. We all know you’re the Alpha Male here. You’re the leader, the silver-back, the chief. It’s understood and nobody disputes it. I’m not here to challenge your place in the pack. I’m just here to make cracking TV!”  
My ruffled feathers were settling under the smoothing hand of his words. I so wanted to believe him. He leaned forward, placing a reassuring hand over my own. His fingers were lean and strong, his palm roughened just enough by calluses.  
“I know you have the power to make life difficult for me,” he continued. “I know you could wreck my career – you have the power, and I saw what you did to that oik Dawe. Yes, I saw how you did it. It was a stroke of genius. I doubt many people noticed. And he deserved to go. He didn’t like the cars; he didn’t fit in with the show. But I do, Jeremy, don’t you see? I have the passion to make this work, if only you’ll give me the chance!”  
His hand was tightening on mine as he became more fervent, and I was still unable to speak. I was startled by his insight, even a little daunted by his intellect, but as he spoke he was steadily drawing me further and further into his web.  
“Don’t shut me out, Jeremy. I’ve seen what you’ve done to this show, and I love it and want to be a part of it! I’m not too proud to admit that. And I’m not too proud to accept your conditions if it means I can stay.”  
With that he sat back. His plea had not fallen on deaf ears, and I knew I had some difficult decisions to make. I considered his words, and I considered his presence. True, I felt threatened by him, but he had promised not overshadow me. And he did make a valuable contribution to the programme. I knew he had a lot more to give. And most of all, he was kind to Hammond….  
“Very well, James,” I murmured. “I’ll let you stay. But there must be some changes if this is going to work.”  
His face lit up in a relieved grin, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me, but he restrained himself.  
“I’ll do anything!” he exclaimed, somewhat rashly.  
“Anything?” I raised a sly eyebrow.  
James met my eye steadily.  
“Anything.” He confirmed.  
“Very well. I want you…..to be a bit shitter,” I decreed.  
He sat up, his brow creased in confusion.  
“Um…what?” he asked.  
“I want you to stop being so great,” I elaborated. “You’re too charming and funny. I can’t risk you hi-jacking the public’s hearts – “  
\- like you’ve hi-jacked mine, I wanted to finish, but bit my lip just in time. God, this man confused me! I didn’t know if I wanted to kill him or kiss him.  
James was nodding his understanding.  
“I get it,” he said. “That’s do-able. We can work on that.”  
He almost seemed excited by the prospect of sabotaging his own on-screen personality!  
For the next hour, we worked together, deciding how he should present himself as a presenter. His ideas were beyond brilliant, and I couldn’t help but be impressed.  
He was, apparently, very good at mechanics, but to provide a counterpoint to that talent he suggested it should be coupled with an apparent tendency to anal-retentiveness – almost to the point of OCD. We decided he would come across as finicky and picky whenever possible.  
Then we had to find a fault with his driving. He wanted to be renowned for having a terrible sense of direction and always getting lost. He thought it would be amusing and Inspector Clouseau-ish. I proposed that he drove like an old woman. Instead of being offended, he laughed heartily.  
“They’re both great ideas!” he chortled. “Let’s use both.”  
To that end, we decided he should have a nickname reflecting these attributes, and I came up with “Captain Slow”. James applauded me in a very flattering way.  
As the meeting drew to a close, I felt a lot happier with the situation. True, James’s engagement as presenter wasn’t something I’d had any say in, but if it had to be someone chosen by the Higher Ups, I had to admit that James was a good choice. Maybe we could be friends….  
We were just about to leave when James put a hand on my upper arm to halt me. As a reflex action I immediately flexed the muscles there so they’d feel hard.  
“Wait, Jeremy,” he said. “If Hammond is Hamster and I’m Captain Slow, who are you?”  
The question set off an explosion of ideas in my mind. I could be anyone! Zeus, The General, Lionheart…… I didn’t say any of these names out loud in case I sounded big-headed, but in the end I had no need to make any suggestions. James May thought up my nickname, and I have been known by it ever since.  
“We should call you…..Jezzer…..” he breathed.  
And so it came to be.


	8. Hamster's Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hammond has an accident and Jeremy very nearly succumbs to James's charms

How does one describe time passing? When you’re there, living it, the time has many moments, each of them filled with the mundane or the exciting. You get up in the morning, use the lavatory, have breakfast, use the lavatory again – possibly for a number 2 if that’s your habit – get dressed, have a quick use of the lavatory again just in case, set off to the TV studio to record the most widely watched factual TV programme in the world (estimated to have around 350 million views per weeks in 170 different countries)…… Well, you get the idea. Time marches on and we march with it, barely considering each grain of sand as it slips through the hourglass of our lives……

 

In the days, weeks, months and years to come, Hammond, James and I forged an unbreakable bond. James’s on-screen persona confused Andy Wilman at first: He couldn’t work out why this vibrant, happy-go-lucky character suddenly turned into a bumbling old fuddy-duddy the minute the cameras were rolling, but when it became apparent that the three of us together were a great success, he didn’t care anymore.

I can’t begin to describe every moment of the years that ensued. There were incidents, such as the time Hammond became convinced that the studio was haunted and wouldn’t go to the toilet by himself. I must admit, when he mentioned this I did have a sudden, superstitious fear that he spoke of The Stig, but when he described the ghost he was afraid of it quickly became clear that someone had been allowing him to watch  _ Casper the Friendly Ghost _ before bed. We swapped his bedtime DVD for  _ Shrek _ and he soon calmed down and started going to the toilet by himself like a big boy.

Then there was the time the presenters from Channel 5’s  _ Fifth Gear  _ –  those splitters Tiff Needell, Vicki Butler-Henderson and some nobody – broke into our studio one night and set fire to our chairs, causing several pounds worth of damage. They also sabotaged the Cool Wall, wrote some upsetting and libellous graffiti on the studio floors and left a poo on our coffee table. We didn’t know who it was at first, but someone was able to identify the culprits from CCTV footage. That Vicki Butler-Henderson is a vile woman, and evidently needs more fibre in her diet.

But they couldn’t dampen the Top Gear spirits! Our show went from strength to strength, featuring such celebrity guests as Ross Kemp and Carol Vorderman. Overcome with the pressure to think up new ideas, I soon allowed Hammond and James to start coming up with their own suggestions, even if it meant Hammond doing an experiment to see if you could run a car on poo. (Apparently, you can)

Throughout all this, ever so slowly, I began to trust James like I had trusted no other in my life.

I had been afraid of getting to close to him right from the start. I could sense he was the kind of man that caused people to love him with ease, and I hadn’t wanted to become one of his followers. But exposed to his presence, day in, day out, I could not help but let down my guard. It was a gradual thing, taking many seasons, and before I had realised it I found myself seeking out his company, asking his opinion on weighty matters such as whether an ice cream van could jump over a bouncy castle, and confiding all my hopes and fears.

We had a wonderful, platonic friendship.

_ But Jeremy _ , I hear you ask.  _ Didn’t you want him? _

Of course I did. I was human, wasn’t I? I had dreams and desires and erections. Of course I wanted him! But I dared not act upon that lust – for lust it was, and nothing more. Because every time I thought about holding him, touching him, kissing him, I thought of The Stig, how he had used my body with no care for my mind, how he had abused my hole and my emotions at the same time. And I could not risk that happening again with James – I could not risk our friendship.

So we continued on, at arm’s length, with me rubbing one out occasionally at the thought of his skin against mine, and all was well for a time. Until something dreadful happened, something that was to nearly destroy us all – one of us literally, the other two figuratively…

 

It was 20 th September 2006.

I was test-driving the Jaguar XKR, and we were between shoots. I had stopped for a refreshing beverage, and was admiring the way the sun hit the treetops nearby, when my mobile telephone rang. I hesitated before answering. Maybe part of me knew what news I was avoiding, and that was why I paused. Or maybe it was because my ringtone was  _ Run to You _ by Bryan Adams and I was enjoying listening to it. Whatever the reason, when I did pick up the phone, the person at the other end was frantic. It was Andy Wilman, and he was sobbing. Again.

“Oh, Satan’s Testicles, Andy Wilman! Whatever is the matter now?” I glanced at my watch. We had nearly finished filming for the day, and I was anxious to get home.

“Oh, Jeremy, it’s terrible!” he wailed. “It’s Richard!”

Hamster?

My knees suddenly felt weak, and not in a sexy way. When I’d said goodbye to Hammond that morning, he’d been excitedly on his way to drive a very fast car. A very fast car indeed.

He’d been nagging me for ages to drive a properly fast car, and I’d finally caved in and arranged for him to have a go in the Vampire dragster, a jet-car capable travelling at speeds in excess of 300mph.

I suddenly did not want to talk to Andy Wilman, but I had to know.

“Is he…. Is he dead?” I asked.

“Not yet,” replied Andy Wilman.

 

James and I reached the hospital at the same time, and fell into each other’s arms on sight. I had to perform some severe spinal contortions to rest my head on his shoulder, but eventually managed by bending my knees and leaning on him. James staggered slightly under my weight, but braced himself heroically and allowed me to slump against him. I stayed there for a while, drawing strength from the scent of his Lynx body spray and Timotei shampoo. I briefly pictured him washing his hair in a mountain stream.

I could have stayed there forever, but it was a luxury I couldn’t afford right then. (I can afford lots of other luxuries though. I have a gold plated toilet-roll holder in my downstairs lavatory.) Reluctantly, I levered myself away from James and straightened up.

“Any news?” I asked.

James shrugged, a miserable, desolate gesture.

“He’s been airlifted in. It’s his head, Jeremy. His poor little head…”

James buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. I myself dashed a few manly tears from my eyelashes. Then we pulled ourselves together and went into the hospital.

 

Our way was barred. The medical staff wouldn’t allow us to enter the room where our little Hamster lay. There was a tiny little blonde woman there, weeping, when we arrived, and she rushed over to us.

“Oh my, God isn’t it dreadful?” she lamented.

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded.

She looked shocked at this.

“I’m Mindy. I’m Richard’s wife!”

James and I looked at each other, puzzled.

“Are you sure?” asked James eventually.

“Of course I’m bloody sure!” she snapped with unnecessary temper. “I was there when he married me! It was four years ago! We’ve got two children together!”

Part of me remembered Hammond babbling something about a wife, once, but it didn’t seem important. I shrugged it off.

“Well, congratulations,” I said. “Never mind that now, though. Where’s the Hamster? I must see him!”

“You can’t see him,” she said, starting to cry again. “They’re busy trying to save his life. And when he is ready to be seen, I’ll be the first one allowed in.”

I was so taken aback, I actually, literally took a step backwards. I opened my mouth to protest, possibly quite angrily, but was stilled when I felt James’s hand on my arm.

“Hush, Jeremy,” he murmured, his voice soothing my soul. “There’s obviously nothing we can do here. We must wait.” He looked at the Mindy woman, holding his head proudly. “I trust you will let us know if there is any change?” he inquired.

She nodded.

“Thank you.” James bowed stiffly, then turned to me. “Come, Jeremy. Let us go.”

He took my unresisting hand and led me from the hospital.

 

“Did you know Hammond was married?” he asked me once we were outside.

“I suppose I must have done,” I answered. “I’m sure I met her once. And the kiddies. Girl-children, I believe. In fact, yes, I did know he was married. It must have slipped my mind. How odd!”

“Indeed,” replied James. “Mine too.”

We stood there on the hospital steps. My emotions were in a turmoil, a roiling mixture of grief, anxiety and guilt churning over and over in my stomach. I blamed myself for Hammond’s accident – if I had never given in to his nagging and allowed him to drive that infernal machine, he would be safely tucked up in bed now.

As if reading my thoughts, James turned to me.

“It’s not your fault you know, Jeremy.” His voice was so kind I nearly collapsed then and there. “Hammond  _ begged _ you to do it. And let’s face it: He’s a big boy now. If he can get married, he can face up to other responsibilities. Like driving high-speed jet-cars. And crashing.”

I turned to him, grasping both his hands in mine.

“That means a lot, thank you James. I was so worried you would blame me – “

“Sssh!” He stopped my words with a finger against my lips. “I could never blame you, Jeremy.”

His finger remained where it was longer than necessary. You could say his finger lingered. I had to fight the urge to put out my tongue and taste its tip. Slowly, he withdrew it.

“It’s a long way home, Jeremy. I have a little flat not far from here that I come to when I want to be alone. No-one knows about it. Shall we go there? Together?”

“Yes, James,” I whispered.

 

I was still in the Jaguar I’d been test-driving when I’d received the phone call. I allowed to James to drive, as I said I still felt weak and vulnerable. It was true, but I also enjoyed being driven by James. He was a firm, assertive driver, and I liked to watch the way his hand manipulated the gear stick, the way the long muscles in his thighs moved as he worked the pedals.

James’s flat was a small, one bedroom affair, tucked away discreetly over a florist's. There was only one armchair in front of the open fireplace, the rest of the space being taken up by his piano, so we settled on the rug together as he got the fire lit.

James had thoughtfully strewn pillows and cushions on the floor for our comfort, and I lounged there quite comfortably while he plied me with wine and grapes.

If it hadn’t been for Hammond lying at death’s door in hospital not far away, I would have been happy. Fine wine, good company, a roaring fire and Kate Bush’s  _ Kick Inside _ album playing in the background – perfect circumstances.

We chatted idly, trying not to mention Hammond, but that subject underlying everything we spoke of. As I drank more wine, I got quite maudlin, and we reminisced about the good old days of past episodes of Top Gear. It got too much, though, when  _ The Man With the Child in His Eyes _ started playing. It reminded me so of the Hamster!

I tried hard to conquer my manly emotions, but it was no good. James held me with my head against his chest as he stroked my hair and whispered meaningless, comforting platitudes.

How naïve I was to think we could do this without our passions taking over! Of course we ended up entwined, and it wasn’t long before his lips found mine.

His kisses were as soft as the Stig’s had been rough, but they lacked no ardour for all that. He manipulated my mouth and tongue with such skill I felt dizzy.

My penis was a hard branch straining against the zip of my Levi’s as he slipped his hand inside my shirt, seeking my nipples with his fingertips. I was hungry for his touch, slutty beneath his ministrations, and wantonly opened myself to anything he wanted to do.

We kissed and petted, two paunchy middle-aged men writhing together on a rug, eventually the tracks on the CD becoming  _ Feel It _ , and the lyrics perfectly reflected my yearning.  _ “Well it could be love/Or it could be just lust/But it will be fun/It will be wonderful….” _

I wanted him so badly, it was with almost physical pain I eventually thrust him from me.

My hands on his shoulders, I held him at arm’s length, my lips wet from his saliva, my bosom heaving. He tried to lean forward and continue kissing me, but I turned my head aside determinedly.

“No, James,” I said in a voice that barely sounded like my own. “We can’t do this. I’ve been hurt before…..”

“I’d never hurt you, Jeremy!” James protested, leaning towards me.

“We’re doing this for the wrong reasons!” I exclaimed, pushing back. “We both know it! We’re upset about Hammond, and we’re overcome by a mutual physical attraction, but we have to  _ work _ together, dammit!”

Hurt, James subsided. It was agonising to see the expression on his face, the way his thwarted penis wilted inside his pants. Was I doing the right thing? Oh, I couldn’t be sure, and it was torture!

“Let’s wait,” I suggested. “Spend more time together. See how things go. If we still feel the same way once Hammond is better, well….”

“All right, all right!” He held up his hands in good-natured defeat, but his smile was returning. “You win this one, Jeremy. But don’t think I’m giving up! I’ll give you all the time you need. Know this, though: I  _ will _ have you, if it takes me all our lives!”

  
  



	9. The Specials

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to ignore his feelings, Jeremy concentrates on his work

As you will no doubt know, unless you have been living in a cave, Hammond lived. He had serious problems with his brain, and it took a lot of time before he got all better, but once he did we spoiled him rotten with all the Lego and ice-cream his little heart desired.

James continued his campaign to win me over. He knew the effect he had on me, and would go out of his way to engineer situations in which he would have to be half-naked in front of me. Of course I would always try not to look, but how could I help it?

Sometimes, we would be in a meeting, or doing some recording, or just eating a bacon sandwich by the Top Gear track and James would lean in close and whisper in my ear:

“ _ I will get you eventually, Jeremy….” _

Despite the temptation he constantly threw in my path, I remained resolute in the face of his wooing. I had learned my lesson the hard way. It had to be body and soul, or neither. There could be no lovemaking without love.

 

The show was going so well The Execs were practically throwing money at us. I used expensive cars in as many shows as possible and hired even more famous celebrity guests, but still had money left over. One day, I mentioned it in conversation with Andy Wilman.

“Andy Wilman,” I said. “What can we spend all this money on?”

“Well, Jeremy,” he mused. “You could book holidays with Richard and James, then drive around being filmed while you’re there and say it’s for the television programme. It could take up the whole show.”

“Why, that’s a splendid idea, Andy Wilman!” I exclaimed. “We could call them ‘The Specials’.”

“You mean the ones who recorded  _ Ghost Town _ ?” he asked.

“No, Andy Wilman. That’s not what I meant.”

 

So that is what we did. We had done a Winter Olympic Special that was very successful, if rather chilly. James and I raced each other whilst stopping to shoot targets and James got so excited he accidentally won, for which I rebuked him roundly.

The next special was set in the US, and didn’t go so well. I’d wanted to go to Disney World but they made us buy dreadful cars and drive to New Orleans. It started off well, but after we wrote insulting slogans on each other’s cars we nearly got killed to death by angry rednecks in Alabama. I still lie-awake at night racked with shame at the memory of leaving James behind needing a jumpstart. Although James has never reproached me, I bitterly regret that it was Hammond who was his knight in shining armour on this occasion.

The third one involved driving to the North Pole. It was to be a race between a husky-drawn sled and a modified Toyota Hilux. I was having a wee during a vital part of the production meeting and James filled me in on the details once I’d returned. Hammond was on the sled, James and I driving. I could tell by his impish grin that the infuriating man had somehow wangled an opportunity to be alone with me, but as it was James, I couldn’t be angry with him for long. The whole thing ultimately backfired on him, though, as it was far too cold in the tent to do anything but snuggle together for warmth once the cameras had stopped rolling. We had some great on-screen pretend arguments about James’s snoring and putting up the tent, and we eventually won the challenge, but it was an empty victory really as Hammond was still a bit poorly from his accident. Also apparently he’d once had to sit up all night whilst a polar bear stalked his camp and there had been a very real danger he’d be eaten.

After this episode, I was determined that the next Special would be somewhere warm, and though I lobbied for Hawaii the production team decided on Botswana. I didn’t know where Botswana was at first, but looked it up on the interweb and discovered it was a country in Africa, which surprised me. I had always thought Africa was a country in itself. James informed me that was a common misconception. You learn something new every day.

 

The Botswana Special involved each of us “buying” a used two-wheel drive car for £1500 and driving across Botswana from the Zimbabwe border across the Makgadikgadi salt plains and through the Okavango Delta to the Namibian border.* I say “buying”, as none of us actually spent our own money on the cars. James “bought” a Mercedes-Benz, I “bought” a Lancia and Hamster “bought” a 1963 Opel Kadett which he nicknamed “Oliver”. By day we drove through appalling conditions, trying to modify our unsuitable cars for the African terrain, and by night we slept in appalling conditions, “camping” in “tents” by the “fireside”. It was all highly uncomfortable, and Hammond periodically went into hysterics because he was afraid of the insects.

Despite the hardships, James and I did have some good times together once Hammond was in his onesie and tucked up in his sleeping bag. We sat beneath unfamiliar constellations and roasted marshmallows on our campfire whilst we chatted about the different piston rhythms in V8 engines.

Of course, James tried to have his way with me on more than one occasion. At one point whilst I was dressing in my tent he screamed that he was being attacked by a lion and when I raced out to rescue him he was standing there grinning with his camera in his hand. I told him to delete the photo of me in my underpants and a machete raised aloft in my fist and he swore that he had – before revealing later on that night that he was planning on using the image to wank himself to sleep. I blushed and poked at the dying orange embers of the fire, but once the suggestion had been planted in my mind I knew I would be lying awake that night, picturing the act he had described, listening out for his sighs and the sounds of fapping.

At the end of the trip, Hammond had grown so attached to “Oliver” we paid to have it flown back to England, and he has kept it ever since.

All in all, the Botswana Special had to be considered a success in spite of the privations endured, and we all looked forward to the next one. Again, I was hoping for somewhere warm and glamourous like Miami or Monte Carlo, but somehow, we ended up going to Vietnam.

  
  


* I copied all this directly from IMDB as, despite having been there, these place names mean nothing to me whatsoever.


	10. Vietnam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunkenness and motorbikes

We all had high hopes for the Vietnam Special, but I was to be disappointed from the start.

The challenge was to travel 1,000 miles from Hồ Chí Minh City (Saigon), in the south of Vietnam to Hạ Long city, near Hanoi (Hà Nội) in the north in eight days, eventually ending at a floating dock in Ha Long Bay.

We were given shoe boxes filled with 15,000,000 Vietnamese  _ dong _ , and bestowed with such riches I anticipated with glee the car I would “buy” in which to achieve this feat, but to my utter horror and ultimate rage, I was informed that the foreign currency was actually equivalent to roughly US$1,000 and that it would be “much funnier” if we were to do this distance on motorbikes!

I have always despised motorcycles, and have long associated the leather garments worn to ride these monstrosities with the homosexual in The Village People. I could not bear the thought of being astride a throbbing metal horse for prolonged periods of time, exposed to the elements, with some nasty hard headwear flattening my curls. I was sure to be horribly uncomfortable.

Hammond and James, however, were overjoyed, and if I am being honest their shared pleasure in this rankled me more than anything else…..

 

We “bought” our bikes. Hammond and James got all giggly comparing Hammond’s Minsk – which I had previously thought was a small furry animal they used to make coats – and James’s Honda Super Cub, which to me sounded like a baby bear in a cape. I had “bought” a Vespa. I had no interest or experience in buying motorcycles, but I remembered the mods in  _ Quadrophenia _ and thought they had ridden something like this.

Even though I was bitterly disappointed by the destination and the choice of vehicle, I was prepared to be positive about the experience and to do my best to make a stunning television programme. It was my job, after all. But my good intentions evaporated the minute I sat upon my Vespa and I found I was unable to start it.

It took a while, but eventually I was aided by several locals and an Australian tourist, and it was only once I was triumphantly chugging along I realised that Hammond and May had gone on ahead, leaving me behind.

I felt like the fat child picked last for sports, plodding along behind the skinny kids on a cross country run with my nose dripping snot and my shins scratched by thorns. My thoughts for the first couple of hours were filled with resentment, self-contempt and half-considered revenge. How dare they go off together without me! I was Jeremy Clarkson!

My jaw ached from grinding my teeth by the time I caught up with them. They had pulled over to wait for me, and were laughing together as I approached. I could barely see them through the red mist that had descended over my vision, but I was vaguely aware of James punching Hammond on the shoulder in a chummy gesture.

Finally, far too late for my wounded pride, they looked up as I arrived. The closer I got, the better they were able to discern my expression, and their good spirits faded on their faces as my mood became apparent.

I stopped the bike and turned off the engine, dismounting and letting the wretched machine fall to the floor. James nervously tried to point out something called a “kickstand” which apparently supported the bike in an upright position, but I glared at him until his witterings subsided. Hammond, meanwhile, was whimpering and trying to hide behind James, one frightened eye peeping out from behind his elbow as he cowered.

Somewhere deep down inside I was aware that I was being a bully, and that I was being unkind to scare Hamster so much, but I was in such ill-humour I found I could not modify my behaviour. I was wounded far beyond anything I could have imagined and, whether it was appropriate or not, I threw my helmet to the floor and stalked off without so much a backward glance at either of them.

I heard the scuff of shoes behind me, and such was the violence of my disposition I prayed that neither of them were following, but my hopes were dashed when footsteps caught up with me, and I heard James’s voice simultaneously with his hand grasping my upper arm.

“Jeremy, wait – “

James trailed off and recoiled in horror as I turned in my rage towards him, both my voice and my fist raised.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” I bellowed.

My clenched fist hovered in the air, promising blood and pain. James looked justifiably appalled: Never had I threatened him before, but to his credit he coped admirably. Even in the face of my dire menace, he did not back down. Instead, visibly controlling his fear, he reached out and very gingerly touched my elbow, using the merest tips of his fingers. His voice trembled only slightly on the night air as he spoke in a placating tone.

“Calm yourself, Jeremy,” he said. “You’re frightening Hammond.”

I looked across at the Hamster, his terror all too apparent as he cowered with his balled fists pressed to his mouth, his shoulders quivering with barely supressed tears. I felt a momentary pang of shame at being the cause of his distress, but that shame was tempered with the knowledge that he had also been the reason for my anger in the first place.

Still, I lowered my hand, embarrassed that I had intended to strike James, and tried to muster my dignity.

Satisfied I was stable, James turned from me and went to Hammond. He bent down, as was his way, to look the Hamster in the eye and patted his shoulder gently. I heard the soft words he spoke, telling Hammond that I was tired and grumpy and just needed a rest. He also told him I probably had a sore bottom from sitting on a motorbike all day, and predictably Hammond started giggling at the word “bottom”. James murmured a few more words of encouragement, then returned to me. This time, his face did not bear an expression of supplication. Instead, he wore an aspect of barely controlled outrage that made me gasp.

“I’m going to get Hammond settled into bed,” he told me, his jaw clenched. “There’s a bar over there. Go and get a beer and wait for me. Then we can sort this bloody nonsense out!”

He turned on his heel, striding away with Hammond in tow to the shabby little hotel.

I felt crushed that James had used such a tone with me, and sloped over to the bar he had indicated, ordering two bottled Vietnamese beers. I sipped mine nervously as I waited, preparing to face James’s disapproval, but as I loitered I turned over the events of the day in my mind over and over until I had once again convinced myself I was in the right, and that James was to blame for my temper. By the time James joined me, I was back on my high horse, ready to square up for battle.

James sat opposite me at the tiny table, his knees bumping up against mine as he pulled up his chair. In spite of my mood, I felt an electric  _ frisson  _ as I always did upon such moments of intimacy. Whether James felt it too I don’t know, as he began to speak straight away.

“What’s the problem then, Jeremy?” he said, his tone curt. “You raised your hand to me and frightened Hammond. That’s not on, and you know it!”

I slammed my beer down onto the table top, glad when James flinched at the noise.

“You and Hammond left me!” I growled. “You both drove away and went on ahead. You didn’t wait to see if I was okay! I couldn’t start my bike!”

James regarded me with a look of honest perplexity.

“But….. that’s what we do, isn’t it Jeremy? We’ve done it on every road trip we’ve been on. The viewers find it funny. One of us breaks down, the others go on ahead laughing at the one who has broken down. It’s hilarious. We left Hammond in Botswana when there were lions around! Remember?”

I did remember, but I wasn’t ready to back down.

“That’s different though,” I averred. “That’s cars. These are motorbikes, and you know how I hate those!”

James shook his head, swigging at his beer impatiently.

“I can’t see how it’s different,” he asserted. “You’re being a bloody idiot!”

“How dare you!” I shrieked, my voice rising in pitch to a somewhat embarrassing falsetto.

James sighed, rubbing his eyes. I could tell by the slump of his shoulders that he was weary, and I longed for this conversation to be over. It occurred to me that I could end this now if I got up and rubbed his shoulders, but my pride wouldn’t allow me.

“What’s this really about, Jeremy?” he asked me softly. “There’s something going on here that’s beyond bloody motorbikes, but I’m damned if I can fathom it.”

I finished my beer and ordered another. It was strong stuff, and I was already feeling woozy and tearful.

“It’s you and Hammond,” I confessed. “You’re having fun and I’m not!”

“Is that all?” James reached across the table and enclosed one of my hands in both his warm ones. “I find that hard to believe.”

I couldn’t meet his gaze, and looked down at the rough grain of the wooden table. The fact that I knew I was pouting like a child wasn’t enough to stop me from doing it, and I was aware that my bottom lip was pushed out in petulance. James delicately brushed a curl from my brow, and his tenderness encouraged me to speak.

“It feels like you like Hammond more than me.”

There. It was said.

I did not look up to see his reaction, but heard his faint gasp of laughter.

“What -- ? That’s preposterous, Jeremy! You bloody fool, man! How could you think that?”

His tone was incredulous, and I felt more bashful and silly than I had ever done. I tried to shrug, but could only manage one shoulder in my chagrin.

“Dammit, man, look at me will you?” he demanded, and his tone was so commanding I had to comply.

He glared at me in his usual direct fashion, his expression firm but kind.

“Jeremy,” he began, rubbing his thumb along the length of my index finger so coaxingly I squirmed. “Do you not know what you do to me? Don’t you know what you  _ mean _ to me? I’ve waited for you longer than I’ve waited for anyone in my life! I’ve lived like a monk for you! You’ve prick-teased me for six years and I’ve tolerated it because I think you’re worth it!”

I bristled at the inference, tossing my hair back.

“I have not prick-teased!” I declared with such vehemence that several people looked round, and I could only hope they didn’t speak English – although I’d said it so loudly and clearly I was almost certain they’d understand. Blushing, I lowered my voice. “I haven’t,” I reiterated. “At least, not intentionally….”

“Oh, you have, Jeremy, and you ruddy well know it. You’ve lorded it over me, getting all precious, giving me blue balls and keeping your legs closed, but I like that. You know I do,” he breathed, his voice becoming husky. “It’s the thrill of the chase. I’ve never experienced it before. I’ve always been able to have whoever I’ve wanted, so to find someone like you, so vulnerable and yet so untouchable….. Well, the combination is irresistible.”

Very slowly, he lifted my hand – the one that wasn’t grasping the beer bottle – and pressed his lips gently to my knuckles, his eyes never leaving mine. The touch of his mouth seemed to draw the air from my lungs and my head began to spin.

“Don’t….” I muttered feebly. “You mustn’t…”

“Oh, don’t worry, Jeremy,” he purred. “I don’t intend to take advantage of you. You have to make the first move, or it won’t count. I won’t have you claiming afterwards that I seduced you….”

He laid my hand down and withdrew his grasp. I felt bereft at the absence of his touch, and the night air seemed colder without it.

Grinning at me in that winning way of his, he extended his beer bottle and clinked its base against mine.

“Cheers,” he drawled, taking a swig. I took a swig of my own, moistening my dry lips, and the long night of drunkenness began.

 

We did get very drunk, and I’m afraid my churlishness demonstrated itself again before the night was over.

We ate a local delicacy made of snake meat, and drank shots of vodka mixed with snake’s blood and bile. It was very tart, and also very strong.

At some point I became angry about our motorcycle helmets, and the events unwound from there onwards.

James and I wore makeshift motorbike helmets, as the local ones were too small for our Western heads – James wore a combination of a wok and a colander, I wore a metal bucket – but Hammond had been very proud with his camouflage patterned helmet.

I dared James to cause Hammond’s helmet to have an “accident”, which he achieved by placing it behind the wheel of a delivery truck and waiting for it to reverse. The helmet was quite crushed, and after some initial giggling we stopped and regarded the poor squashed thing with a fair measure of regret.

“Shit,” remarked James after a while of silence. “What have we done?”

I didn’t answer; I sensed the question was rhetorical. I picked the helmet up and attempted to brush the dirt off it, but it didn’t help. It was damaged irreparably.

I was filled with remorse, but there was no going back. We bought him another one, but the only one we’d been able to attain was pink, and when Hammond saw it the next morning he was inconsolable. 

James tried to cheer him up.

"Don't take this the wrong way. Different colours assume different significance in different cultures. To us, that is a feminine colour but to them it's the colour of warriors," he told the weeping Hamster, but Hammond wasn’t falling for it, and sulked the rest of the day.

James and I exchanged rueful grins, but the fault lay entirely with me: Only I knew that wrecking Hammond’s helmet had been a test to establish exactly how far I could manipulate James…..

  
  



	11. Out of Africa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy and James finally consummate their love

I was the first to arrive in the little village in Uganda.

It was 2013. James had been reading a book about David Livingstone and had suggested it would be fun to see if we could discover the definitive source of the Nile, which meant going back to Africa. Even though we’d been to Africa before, someone pointed out that it was a very big place and we could reasonably go back to film another special there.

We had been told to “buy” estate cars, and I had “purchased” a BMW. As always at the beginning of a special I was filled with a mixture of apprehension and excitement at the potential of what we could achieve. It went without saying that I also enjoyed the specials because it meant I could spend quality time with James and Hammond without the hurly burly of modern day life and families interfering.

I breathed deeply of the fresh, rural air and waited for the others to arrive. We had agreed that it would be in character for James in his guise as Captain Slow to arrive last, so when I heard an approaching engine I knew it was Hammond in “his” Subaru. We greeted each other and made fun of each other’s cars, as was traditional, but my heart wasn’t truly in it. As always, only part of my mind was on the job – although I’m such a professional nobody would ever notice. The other part was on hold, in a void of emotional silence that could only be filled by the presence of one person……..

Another engine could be heard, and this time I knew it was James. It didn’t matter how many times he entered my personal space: The novelty never wore off. Without fail, I would feel the familiar stirrings in my loins, the weakness in my limbs, the pitter-patter of my foolish heart as it bumped against my ribs as though it longed to leap out and greet him. I was a giggling schoolgirl in his proximity; a blushing damsel waiting in a turret window; a shy courtesan hiding behind a fan. As his Volvo rounded the corner, I had to stop myself from running to meet him with wings on my heels. Instead, I made fun of his car and tried to pretend I hadn’t noticed he’d done something new with his hair.

Sometimes I felt as though the whole world must know how I felt about James. There I was, on screen in his presence, every week, trying not to look him directly in the eye lest the viewers twig that something extra-curricular was transpiring. I laughed at the Volvo and criticised the thinness of the tyres, but really I was casting sideways glances at James’s hair. It had greyed even more over the past few years, and looked lighter and wispier than usual. Some of the natural curl that had been lacking recently had returned. Had he had it feathered? I made a mental note to compliment him on it when we had a moment alone. It really did look good.

For my part, I noticed him casting his own appreciative glances my way. I was pleased that I’d worn my favourite blue shirt, one that James had casually mentioned in the past suited me. I wore the collar slightly open at the throat, letting him glimpse my Adam’s apple but drawing the line at exposing my collar bone. I had struck, I hoped, the correct boundary between sexy and prudish. I felt fresh and pretty and hopeful. A whole day of driving lay ahead of us, at the end the promise of drinks with my best friends and a cosy hotel.

 

Sadly, the cosy hotel was not to be. I’d neglected to book in advance, and as night drew in we realised there weren’t many hotels around. There had been delays, especially when we’d discovered a village called Jezza which had been the cause of much hilarity, with James making such innuendoes as “We’ve now entered Jezza!” and “We’re coming into Jezza!”

I’d laughed along with them, but when I viewed the footage later on, I’m sure my internal longing was clear on camera, as I was nursing an uncomfortable erection at the effect of his words.

Side-splitting though all this had been, it was dark by the time we quit the speed-bump strewn main road and headed onto the dirt side-roads. It had begun to rain, turning the road surface to slick mud that caused James and I to skid uncontrollably, colliding with each other.

Finally, we pulled up outside the “Economic Lodge”, which was as horrible as its name suggested.

The buildings were roughly painted concrete, draughty and bare and filthy with water flooding the floors. The bed in my room had a threadbare mattress that I discovered was caked in faeces when I pulled back the covers. I knew my back and my gorge wouldn’t survive one night in that bed.

The others had apparently fared no better, as somewhere in that bleak building I could hear Hammond wailing:

_“I don’t like it! It smells and it’s cold and it’s wet and the toilet is just a hole in the floor and there are things living in my bed!”_

Somehow, we managed to get through the night in those awful quarters, but we were all in bad shape by the morning. My back was in tatters and I’d slept fully clothed, so I felt dirty and crumpled. James wasn’t much better, greasy grey stubble already sprouting on his noble chin, bags under his eyes. My heart ached for him as much as my back ached for me. We sat together in silence in the heat of the rising dawn watching as Hammond came waddling out, wrapped in a blanket and rubbing his eyes. He’d spent the majority of the night perched on a rickety chair, unwilling to lie on the louse-infested bed.

Looking at my two weary companions, I made the decision there and then that there would be no more nights spent in such destitution. There would be luxury, or there would be no Special.

 

Denied the budget for 5-star hotels for the remainder of the journey, I managed to negotiate a compromise, and we were granted funds to convert our estate cars into mobile homes.

Hammond turned his little Subaru into a camper van, complete with a little cooking stove where he could cook his favourite meal of baked beans. Hammond always had problems finding food he could eat when we were in foreign countries, as he was extremely fussy. In Vietnam he had survived on Rice Crispies and Smarties smuggled in by the camera crew.

The back of James’s Volvo was more Spartan, equipped with a tool kit, a library and an uncomfortable looking camp bed. I laughed at the austerity of his quarters, until he turned to me and cast a languid eye over my body.

“It’s not the most comfortable of beds, I agree, but let’s face it Jeremy: I don’t have access to a cold shower in the mornings. Sleeping and waking up so close to you every day….I need something to counter the sexual frustration!”

I couldn’t help flushing at his words, for he’d seen my own quarters: I’d transformed the back of my BMW into a replica of a hotel room where I’d once stayed in Miami, furnishing it with yards and yards of soft, snowy Egyptian cotton. It was a vision of hedonistic bliss complete with a portable DVD player and a mini-fridge that ran off the cigarette lighter. I could barely wait for night to fall so that I could bask in its opulence.

 

We traversed the usual array of atrocious roads that day, ranging from washboard gravel to hub-deep mud, so it was a relief when we found a clearing where we could settle for the night.

Hammond cooked, preparing beans for us all, and I provided us with chilled beer from my mini-fridge. We built a campfire to sit around, and whilst James put Hammond to bed I did a short piece to camera from inside my car, telling the viewers how incredibly comfortable it was.

At this point, the film crew retired to their hotel for the night, and we were finally left to our own devices.

Having finished reading Hammond his bed-time story, James was sat on a log next to the fire. He’d helped himself to another bottle of beer, and I stood for a moment in the shadows, unregarded, watching his profile as he swigged at it, framed by the backdrop of the flickering flames. I was hypnotised by the smooth motion of his throat working as he swallowed, and the way the tip of his tongue crept out to capture the stray drops from his lips. Illuminated there, like an angel perched on the very edge of the abyss of Hades, I was reminded forcibly all over again of how very much I loved him.

As if aware he was being watched, he lowered his beer and looked around, a faint frown furrowing his distinguished brow.

“Jeremy?” he called softly, and as tempting as it was to remain in the shadows and observe him privately till my heart’s content, I could not resist his siren’s song, and my feet moved as if of their own accord to take my body into his vicinity.

As I approached the light, I was rewarded by his smile, touched with a tinge of relief.

“What were you up to?” he asked. “I was beginning to get worried you’d been eaten by lions!”

“Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” I countered raising an eyebrow, reminding him of the photograph he still teased me with occasionally.

He chuckled, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Hammond.

“Ah, how you rushed to save me, Jeremy….” He mused.

“It was a rotten trick, James, but I forgive you,” I told him loftily, snatching the beer bottle from his unresisting hands and helping myself to a sip. It was primarily done to distract myself from the feeling of his eyes on me, but the sensation of touching my lips to the mouth of the bottle, knowing that his own lips had been there only moments before, only served to fluster me further.

It was the flames, I reasoned – they reminded me of the night of Hammond’s accident, when James and I had retreated to his tiny flat to await news. How close we had come then to pure, physical union. To this day, I wondered if I had made the right decision in rejecting him then, but it wasn’t to be helped. How could we ever know?

James’s hand tugged at my sleeve, diverting me from my thoughts, bringing me back down to earth. I realised I still had my mouth around the neck of the bottle, my tongue darting inside to lick at the droplets within.

“Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to sit down?” he asked.

I sat. The night was beginning to chill, and we drew closer, both to the fire and each other, for warmth. By way of winding down, we idly discussed the events of the day, but the unspoken subject loomed large between us at it always did. Whether by accident or design, James wore a close-fitting bottle-green t-shirt that clung to the contours of his man-boobs, and the brisk night air has teased his nipples to erection, sharply defined against the cotton. The very sight brought a heat to my cheeks that the campfire couldn’t. We drank more beer as it got later and later, colder and colder, neither of us willing to cut our companionship short and go to our respective beds.

I longed for him, his perfection and his faults, his strong yet delicate hands, the roughness of his 2-day stubble. The sweat of the day still clung to him, even its sour note a heavenly musk to my biased nostrils. My head was spinning and I didn’t know whether it was because of the beer or because of James.

Noticing my discomfort, James touched the back of my hand.

“Are you okay, Jeremy?” The concern in his voice was almost too much for me.

“Oh, God, James!” I was close to sobbing as I cast down my empty beer bottle, hiding my face in my hands.

“Jeremy?” he gasped. “My god, man, whatever is the matter?”

“I can’t do this anymore!” I confessed. “I can’t stand being so close to you, yet so far!”

“It’s always been your choice, Jeremy,” reminded James, but the compassion in his voice was evident and I sensed no accusation on his part.

“I know, but what can I do?” I lamented. “My heart says yes, but my brain……”

“I’ve never understood why you’ve built so many walls, Jeremy,” said James. “Dammit, man, why can’t you trust me?”

I looked down at the ground.

“I’ve been hurt too much before,” I whispered. “Once bitten, twice shy.”

“But who bit you?”

James went down on his knees in front of me, craning his neck to meet my gaze. His hands were warm and strong on mine.

“It was the Stig.” A shuddering sigh escaped my lips. “The Stig bit me! Literally and figuratively!”

“Ben Collins?” James’s shock was palpable, but I had to set him right. Ben may have betrayed us badly in 2010 by writing a book about being the Stig, but I could honestly say that he had never attempted to anally rape me. He was, in his way, a true gentleman.

“No, not Ben. The first one. The one in black.”

“Perry?” James’s frown increased.

“No! Not him either! There was another….. a pretender…..He used me and discarded me like a cheap whore!”

James stood, his fists clenched, his teeth gritted.

“The swine!” he cursed tempestuously. “I’ll kill him for hurting you!”

I laughed without humour.

“No need, James – I already did it.”

And there, in the heart of Africa, my secret was out. I told him everything. It was a hard story to tell, and every drop of emotion was wrung from me as I told it. It was as if I were reliving every sordid detail, from the roughness of the concrete floor beneath my knees to the way he bit the back of my neck on orgasm. I cried as I spoke, a constant stream of salt water from my eyes, and when I looked up I saw that James was staring into the fire, a single tear rolling down his grizzled cheek.

It touched me deeply that he would weep for me in his own, manly fashion, and by the time I described the Stig’s death at my hands James was stabbing at the dying embers of the fire with a stick as if there with me, running the man through.

When I finished, we sat in silence for a moment. I wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt.

“So there you go,” I said. “Now you understand why I find it so hard to trust. After what he did to me…..Well, when you came along I was too scared to let my guard down. You were a smooth operator, and I was certain you’d hurt me too if I let you. You were a player – admit it!”

James nodded slowly.

“You’re right, Jeremy, I was,” he professed. “The first day I walked into that studio and saw all those crew members milling around I felt like it was my own private playground! But then I set eyes on you….”

He smiled at me sadly.

“I knew the moment I saw you there would be no playing around from me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to pluck whichever fruit I chose whilst you were around. And not just because of the authority you had over all of us – but because I knew that they would mean nothing compared to you! You were the ultimate prize!”

“So you did intend to use me?” I demanded.

James shrugged.

“I don’t know if ‘use’ is the right word. I knew I wanted you – I confess, I thought you’d be a superb notch on my belt! But as I got to know you, I realised I respected you too much. You were no pushover! You held your ground and pushed back, and ultimately it only made me want you more.”

It seemed it was a time for confessions, as if the open sky of Africa was so vast it encouraged openness of all kinds. I gazed up, and the stars seemed to crowd down on me they looked so clear and close. My mind felt as full of thoughts as the universe and as difficult to sort out.

“So where do we go from here?” I whispered.

James shrugged, a helpless gesture that tore at my heart.

“That’s up to you, my dear,” he said. “It always has been. I’ve waited 11 years, I’ve no doubt I can wait 11 more if I have to. An eternity is nothing when you’re waiting for the one you love.”

He began to turn away from me, but the sharpness of my gasp brought him to an abrupt halt. He was at my side immediately.

“Jeremy, what’s wrong?” he cried urgently. “Are you hurt?”

“No, James,” I whimpered. “Far from it. Don’t you see? All these years, and you’ve never once said that you love me…”

James drew back, regarding me with incredulous surprise.

“But of course I have!” he protested. I raised a cynical eyebrow.

“When, pray?” I asked.

His mouth worked silently, his eyes beginning to widen as the realisation dawned.

“But…. Really?” He shook his head in wonderment. “It’s true? I never have?”

I folded my arms.

“Not once, James,” I stated with absolute certainty.

Confounded, James staggered back a few steps and made his wobbly way back to the log by the fire, sitting heavily upon it.

“Oh, Jeremy,” he breathed. “I had no idea…..I suppose the words were there so often in my head and my heart that I thought I had spoken them aloud.” He looked up at me, the sincerity in his gaze piercing my very soul. “Every day for years, I thought I had said it.” A faint smile of regret played over his delectable lips. “What a ruddy fool I’ve been, eh, old boy?”

I couldn’t help a sad chuckle.

“A ruddy fool, maybe, but you’re my ruddy fool, James. You’re my darling, ruddy fool.”

James stood, drawing himself up, and such was his bearing that I felt faint.

“Then let me say it now,” he announced. “Jeremy Charles Robert Clarkson: I love you. I have loved you for so long, I cannot remember what it was like not to love you. And I swear that I will love you for as long as you will allow me to.”

We stood there, mere feet apart in the moonlight under the wild African sky. Insects chirruped in the jungle nearby, and things shrieked as they were eaten by other, larger things. I remembered his words as we sat in the bar in Vietnam 5 years ago:

_“You have to make the first move, or it won’t count. I won’t have you claiming afterwards that I seduced you…..”_

Choices lay before me, but I could see only one outcome. I launched myself at him, the years of pent up passion brimming into my lips as I kissed him. He staggered under the weight of my onslaught, his hands groping feebly at my back at first then becoming more certain as his arms entwined my waist. He held me to him as though I were a precious jewel, and he kissed me back with such abandon we both fell to the forest floor.

Creepy-crawlies skittered over us, and we quickly stood back up again.

I pulled away, revelling in the half-drunk expression in his eyes my absence brought as he gasped for breath like a drowning man.

My own hands shook as I grasped one of his and guided it to my bosom.

“Make love to me, James,” I murmured.

“My god! Are you sure?” His free hand went to my face, drawing a trail down my cheek, and when his fingers came away wet I realised I was crying again, but this time for joy.

“Yes, James, I’m sure!”

He kissed me again, hungrily, as though he couldn’t get enough.

“Your place or mine?” he whispered, and I laughed despite myself.

“Don’t be ridiculous, James,” I giggled, and he laughed with me. It had been a ridiculous question.

Taking my hand, he led me to the back of my BMW.

 

Had I known, when I was furnishing my Beamer, that I was feathering my love nest? Did some part of me have an inkling as to what was to happen?

I cannot know for sure, but I am eternally grateful to whichever gods inspired me to bedeck my humble estate car in such crisp, white cloth. It was perfect for such a tryst, and made something that was magical to begin with into something almost holy.

We lay amongst the sumptuousness of my white haven, kissing and caressing. I was in a rush, I admit, eager to consummate our love after all this time and clumsy in my manoeuvrings, but James took the wheel, his maturity and experience guiding me, slowing me down. Ah, my Captain Slow! How we had laughed at the name, but how apt it now seemed, and how perfect!

He fondled me so expertly I could scarcely see straight, and his lips seemed to pull emotions from my skin that I had never felt before. I longed to be naked before him, so that there would be no barriers to physical sensation, but when I tried to unbutton my shirt my fingers were numb and simply would not coordinate. James took my hand, kissed those awkward fingers.

“Allow me, my love,” he offered. “I am your slave in such things tonight….”

I lay back limply in acquiescence, my languid limbs all the permission he needed. I could only watch as his deft digits undid the buttons of my shirt and divested me of the garment, slowly and deliberately drawing the fabric from my torso.

His eyes devoured me as each particle of my naked flesh became bare under his gaze, and goosebumps prickled wherever his eyes fell. I shuddered as his hands then went to the button of my Levi’s, undoing the fly and peeling the denim with torturous slowness down my legs.

My love-length strained against the white-cotton purity of my briefs, dipping and bobbing with the pulse of my blood. James sat back on his haunches and regarded my nudity with a look of reverence on his face. One clever hand mapped a path over my frame, following every curve: The valley of my sternum, the soft peaks of my nipples, the forest of my silver chest hair, the swelling hill of my stomach…..

“God, you’re beautiful….” He sighed, and I flinched involuntarily as his fingers tangled into the soft matt of my pubes, pulling down my pants as they went.

There I was: Disrobed, unclad, stripped and defenceless, but I had never felt more powerful. I had my James now. He was all mine, and I was all his.

I watched as he took off his own clothes, roughly and swiftly in his impatience, divesting himself of his outwards cares as he did so. I quaked inside at the culmination of years of frustration as he flipped me over onto my belly, burying my face in the duck-down of my pillow. His breath was hot at the nape of my neck, and for a split second I felt a stab of dread as I was reminded of the Stig, but James seemed to sense my trepidation and set about calming me with gentle gestures and soothing words. He whispered sweet nothings in my ear, the tender zephyr from his lungs fluttering wisps of hair at my temple. I relaxed beneath him, giving myself over to the utter trust he had earned with his patience and devotion.

I expected some pain: How could there be a flexing of such internal magnitude without discomfort? I had seen what James had for me, and the size was formidable, but he had readied me with such care using his skilful pianist’s fingers and silver tongue that when he entered the core of my being there was only a blissful submission of my flesh. Carefully, confidently, he steered the substantial girth of his meaty engine deep into the snug confines of my carnal garage with ease.

I moaned beneath his ministrations, barely able to believe such pleasure was possible in the human form. We moved as one machine, the combined pistons of a perfectly tuned V8 engine. I felt the soft slap of his belly against my rump, the rhythm speeding up as he neared completion, but I sensed him holding back, determined to draw out the gratification as much as possible. Droplets of sweat fell from his brow to patter against my spine and I felt a quaking begin within my bowel that could have been wind but turned out to be an orgasm approaching at high speed.

“Oh, God, James, I’m coming!” I wailed, stuffing my face against the pillow once more to muffle my howls, lest I disturb Hammond.

James’s fingers bit into my hips, his loins straining against my buttocks, and in a single united action we came simultaneously, James pouring his essence deep into me. He growled as he ejaculated, a greying panther at my rear, and collapsed against me, spent.

We lay together for a while, happily sated, the only sound the panting of our laboured breaths. I could feel James’s heart pounding from the exertion, drumming a tattoo against my shoulder blades. I wanted nothing more than to lie there like that for the rest of my life, but I also wanted to turn to hold him. As I felt him diminish within me, I wriggled beneath his weight, and he obligingly withdrew.

We turned to each other, lying there face to face, paunch to paunch, equals. Our arms entwined and James showered my face with delicate kisses as I basked in the afterglow of our love. Neither of us wanted to speak and spoil the moment, so we said nothing, and, with weary smiles of spent ecstasy drifted off to sleep.

 

When I woke the next morning, dawn was painting the skyline in an exquisite array of peaches, corals and ambers. I stretched my limbs, revelling in the slight soreness of my muscles, and it was only when I reached behind myself to fondle James that I realised the other side of the bed was empty.

I felt a sickening stab of dismay that speared me right through my solar plexus and sat up so quickly I forgot I was lying in the back of an estate car and hit my head.

Rubbing the growing bump that was appearing and stifling my panicked sobs, I looked around wildly for some clue of James’s presence, hoping against hope he had just nipped out for a piss, but the bed was long cold and his clothes were gone. My apprehension rising, I clasped the covers around me, covering my nakedness in shame. As I did so, I heard a rustling noise, and further investigation produced a crumpled note that had been left on the bed next to me. Somehow, I had rolled over onto it and it had become pasted to my left buttock. Peeling it off, I lifted it to my eyes with trembling fingers. Although I did not have my reading glasses on, I was able to decipher James’s elegant copperplate:

_My darling Jeremy,_

_Please don't be alarmed by my absence!_

_Hammond woke early because he'd had a nightmare and wanted to know why I was in your car and not my own. I told him I was borrowing your deodorant, but I couldn't return to your side without answering more awkward questions, so I retired to my own bed._

_Forgive me, my love, if I've caused you distress. That was not my intention. Last night was the most amazing night of my life and I hope that there will be many more like it…._

_Until later, my precious,_

_Yours forever,_

_James_

_xxxxxxx_

 


	12. Trouble in Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy's jealous side surfaces

James and I both agreed that it would be better to keep our relationship from Hammond for the time being, as it would raise too many confusing questions in his little mind. We were contented enough to go with the flow, seeing where our path took us, enjoying each other without having to explain things.

The remainder of our time in Africa was spent in the same manner: Every night after filming and with Hammond safely tucked up in bed, James and I would retire to my Beamer where we would talk and make love before cuddling up and falling asleep. Around dawn James’s weak bladder would waken him and he would kiss me goodbye before relieving himself and returning to the cold comfort of his camp bed and itchy blanket.

Were we happy? I think I can safely say for both of us that we were blissfully, unequivocally happy. It was easy against the backdrop of Africa: Romance blossomed like the verdant undergrowth and tropical flowers. The sunsets and sunrises by themselves were enough to make a grown man weep and the ever changing diversity of the scenery kept things constantly fresh. The days were hot, causing passions to rise, and the nights were cold enough to necessitate snuggling up for warmth and companionship. Lying there every night, my long dancer’s legs wrapped around James’s waist, my head thrown back in rapture, I could hear wild animals indulging in their own animalistic lust, rutting in the bushes that surrounded us. It was dangerous, yet that only added to the excitement.

We were far away from our own civilised lives. There were no bills to pay or phones to answer, no children nagging me for money or wife nagging me to go to garden centres or clean out the shed. Our days were stripped back to the merest basics of survival: Fixing broken engine parts; hiring natives to dig us out of muddy roads; fashioning makeshift handbrakes from logs; changing tyres; driving; driving; driving.

On the last night of the trip, I mourned to James that I was unable to wake up and luxuriate in his embrace before making leisurely use of our Morning Glories, and the next morning he surprised me by waking me as dawn’s fingers crept through the darkness. My first thought was alarm and I looked around for snakes, but the only snake greeting me was James’s thick cock, already engorged and rubbing against my thigh. I opened my mouth to speak, but he placed his fingers against my lips,  _ shushing _ me. Not a word was spoken as took my own burgeoning stiffy into his accomplished mouth, his agile tongue manipulating me adeptly into ecstatic heights, his adroit fingers busy at my taint, stimulating me further.

Birds were beginning to sing noisily, their rising shrieks coinciding with my rising ardour. James was an expert lover, and as always I allowed him free reign with my body, trusting him to test my limits gently and open me up to new experiences I would hitherto not have considered. On several occasions, he had introduced a new technique or method which had made me uncomfortable, but on the verge of speaking out I had held my tongue to see where James would take me and I had not been disappointed. He stripped my inhibitions away so delicately I was barely even aware of him doing so.

That last morning in Africa was a revelation. It made a huge difference to couple as the dawn broke, to see the flattering pink light caressing the curves of my lover’s form and to see the ardent expression possess his beloved face as he ministered to my most intimate needs. It was still imperative that we were quiet, and I longed to give voice to my feelings openly, but the magic of the moment was still imbued with a quality that we had not witnessed before. There would be many more such morning encounters in our future, ones where I could cry out at the top of my lungs without fear of discovery, but none would ever touch the enchantment of that daybreak.

After our shared climax, we held each other as long as we dared before James regretfully took his leave. In his absence, I buried my nose in the covers where he had lain, inhaling his scent until I fell back into a contented sleep.

 

Such an idyll could not last and our time in Africa came to a close. James discovered the source of the Nile and we had to go home.

I secretly purchased the BMW I had used, and set it up in a quiet little garage some miles from my house, where I could go and visit it and relive significant moments whenever I could spare the time.

Back in the “real world”, James and I found our love undiminished but inevitably of a practically different nature. The fairy tale may have come to an end on the shores of England, but we had our “happily ever after” to fulfil, and we discovered that it was just as rewarding.

On weekends, when we were able to elude work and family commitments, James and I would retreat to one of our Love Nests. We had several, all highly secretive, including the tiny flat where James and I had stayed on the night of Hammond’s accident. When time allowed and we were able to travel further, there was a remote lodge on the edge of the Scottish highlands where we could escape and revel in our isolation, shooting grouse which we would spit-roast over an open fire and off-roading in borrowed 4-wheel drive cars we were meant to be reviewing.

In the meantime, filming for series 20 had commenced. One of the episodes involved a road trip in budget convertibles, and I suggested Spain as the destination. It was close enough for a quick trip, and I wanted to get out of England to avoid a car boot sale my wife was keen to attend at the weekend.

We were all excited by the prospective adventure, and as I helped James pack I was glad we would be going away. Although I was loath to admit it, I felt troubled. The very first episode of series 20 had introduced the new Reasonably Priced Car, a Vauxhall Astra, and we had invited a number of celebs along to set the first lap times. I had been happily engrossed in chatting with Brian Johnson of AC/DC fame – he had set a very respectable time of 1:45.1 and would ultimately be fourth on the leader board – when I glanced over and saw James talking to Charles Dance.

Dance is an attractive older man, I’d be the first to admit it, but he is a little past his sell-by date, so I was puzzled and a little unnerved to pick up on flirty behaviour on James’s part. I recognized the little signals he was giving off: the almost unconscious flick of the hair, the sideways laugh, the tilt of the hips to show off his bulging fly. I was very familiar all those demonstrations as they appertained to me, and when filming had finished I casually took James aside.

He was flushed and exhilarated from the day outside, and bounced along next to me as we went to our cars.

“That went well, don’t you think?” he enthused. “We got some great lap times down!”

“Indeed,” I agreed. “Brian Johnson and Jimmy Carr set some very competitive times. Although Charles Dance didn’t do so well – a mere 1:48.8,” I observed. I was testing him, and could only hope that I was subtle enough.

To my utmost reassurance, James laughed.

“I know, it wasn’t brilliant,” he concurred. “But what do you expect from of man of his years? Still, I reckon he should hang around the middle of the board as time goes on, even if he isn’t exactly Lewis Hamilton, so fair play to the old boy.”

“Quite a good actor though, don’t you think?” I probed.

“Oh yes, one of the best,” he said. “An English institution. Although I can’t for the life of me remember anything he’s been in…….” he mused.

Satisfied, I took James’s hand for the remainder of the journey. Maybe I was mistaken about Charles Dance. I could only hope so, because in less than a month Hugh Jackman would be in our studio and he was undeniably a complete babe.

 

We were in an abandoned housing estate in Seseña. The place was a ghost town, developed during the Spanish Property Bubble and now lying uninhabited. We’d commandeered an empty house to stay in, and I was currently rifling through James’s suitcase in search of clean underwear. I’d inexplicably not packed enough pants, and reasoned that James wouldn’t mind if I borrowed a pair of his.

Downstairs, I could hear James trying to persuade Hammond to eat his vegetables, and Hammond loudly protesting that one of the prawns had touched one of his potatoes. I held a pair of plain white cotton briefs in one hand, balled in my fist as I stared at the item in my other hand: James’s wallet, which had been tucked into the lining of his suitcase for safekeeping. It was a battered old brown leather thing, rubbed shiny through years of use and permanently moulded to the curved shape of his buttock where he stuffed it in his back pocket. I don’t know why I had picked it up, but it had fallen open in my hand to display his credit cards, his Boots loyalty card, a rumple of Euros and a dog-eared photograph of a young man.

I dropped the pants and daintily tweezed the photo from behind its little plastic window using my fingertips.

The man in the photo looked vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn’t recall where I had seen him before. He was leaning against a clearly reconditioned Cosworth, wearing a pair of cargo trousers and one of those long sleeve tops underneath a short sleeved top. He was lanky and long of leg, skinny and youthful looking with just the merest suggestion of grey beginning to appear at his temples.

I stared at the faintly equine looking features smiling back at me, my knuckles growing white.

“James!”

The cry was loud and unexpected in the deserted town, and the rumble of James’s and Hammond’s ongoing argument halted abruptly. I heard James approach the stairs, but he did not ascend.

“Are you all right, Jeremy?” he called cautiously.

“Could you come upstairs please, James?” I asked, to my surprise my voice sounding normal.

I heard James warning Hammond to behave before coming upstairs. His steps sounded guarded, and he stood in the open doorway regarding me warily.

“What is it, Jeremy?” he asked.

I held the photo out at arm’s length, brandishing it in James’s face.

“Who is this, and why do you have a photo of him in your wallet?” I demanded.

Part of me wanted James to laugh it off, to set my mind at ease and make me feel like a jealous fool, but to my dismay he looked guilty and miserable.

“Oh, him,” he replied dully, looking down at his feet.

“Yes.  _ Him, _ ” I repeated sarcastically. “Who is  _ he _ ?”

James came towards me. He didn’t look at me or the photograph, but sat himself wearily on the edge of the bed. It was covered in plastic, and the mattress crackled beneath his weight.

“He is history, if you must know,” he told me. “And I’m surprised you don’t recognise him. He was on the show once – back in 2002, he showcased a Rover 800 he’d decked out in a load of budget Bond-esqe gadgets. And he was the one who made those double decker cars in series 11 when it was us versus the Germans.”

I dredged my memory trying to put a name to the face. James looked up at me expectantly.

“He presents  _ Wheeler Dealers  _ now with Mike Brewer,” he stated quietly.

I was aware of the programme. An aging, chubby Cockney purchased clapped out old cars and a very tall, talented younger man did them up so they could be sold on at a profit……

“Edd China.”

His name was there, and I detested in presence in my mouth so I spit it out. James nodded sadly.

“Yes. That’s him.”

“Very tall, isn’t he?” I snarled.

James swallowed and looked away.

“6ft 7,” he whispered and I cursed, flinging the photo away from me. Unfortunately, it being made of paper, it didn’t go far and instead of being cast dramatically across the room it caught the air and fluttered crappily down to land at James’s feet. James picked it up, far too tenderly for my liking, and smoothed out the creases before carefully inserting it back into his wallet – only this time placing it behind the plastic window back to front.

“Don’t be upset, Jeremy,” urged James, standing and stuffing the wallet into his back pocket. “I told you: He’s history.”

He was speaking wisdom, I knew, but my jealousy wasn’t as reasonable as my common sense.

“Tell me, then,” I goaded. “Tell me how good he is with his hands. I imagine he’s very talented.”

“It doesn’t matter, Jeremy,” James insisted. “It was a long time ago and it’s been over for many years! It was finished long before I met you.”

I was hurting him, I could tell, opening old wounds, but I was injured beyond logic.

“Why didn’t you ever mention him, then, your toyboy? Why is it when I was opening up to you in Africa you couldn’t have said: ‘ _ Oh, by the way Jezzer, I used to fuck a young mechanic who was on Top Gear a couple of times’ _ ?”

“The moment never came up, dammit!” snarled James, and I cringed at his tone.

Part of me was watching the drama unfold as if from the outside, wondering why this tall handsome gentleman was distressing the shorter, sensitive one so much, but I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to beat my fists against James’s chest, pull at my hair in anguish.

I didn’t care that this Edd China was part of James’s past: The photo had brought him very much into our present, and I was finding it unbearably difficult to share space with him. The fact that James still kept the photo had to mean something, surely.

James came towards me, looking stern in a way that I found deliciously sexy regardless of the circumstances, but beneath that was his endless kindness and patience. James knew how to be firm with me in a way I could understand, and I invariably acceded to his benign command.

He took me by the upper arms, guiding me to the bed and urging me to sit.

“Listen to me, Jeremy,” he insisted. “Not just to my words, but to what they mean.”

It took some effort, but I managed to calm myself. James’s voice was always soothing to me, but the words he spoke were agony to my spirit as he began his monologue:

“Like I said, it was a long time ago. I met him before you, before Top Gear. I was young, but he was younger by a good 8 years and we were brought together by our love of things mechanical. You know how I love to tinker under the bonnet!” He smiled fondly, and I shuddered within. “Anyway, I was very impressed with his abilities. He could strip engines and rebuild them like he was putting together a Lego model, and he seemed to have an almost instinctive knowledge of what was wrong with a car just by listening to it. It was like an art form, really. He was so precise, so measured for one so young. I knew he had a great future! Anyway, he was involved with this woman called Imogen and she started taking up more and more of his time. I should have just let it go, I know, but I’d convinced myself that he shouldn’t waste his potential so I started pushing him, demanding more and more of his time, dominating his schedule. The poor boy would turn in for the night and I’d be on the phone, telling him about this old motor I’d discovered mouldering away in a storage shed on a farm. He’d always respond, no matter how late. I wore him down, Jeremy. I got him to the point where he couldn’t imagine his existence without me and then I seduced him.”

The smile had gone from James’s face now and he looked very downhearted. Even though I was meant to be upset with him, I could not help but feel compassion.

“I was a terrible person, Jeremy,” said James quietly. “I didn’t really want him, but I didn’t want anyone else to have him either. I got him drunk and fucked him and made him fall in love with me, just to see if I could do it. He was like an experiment, almost.” He sighed, a sound wrought from the depths of his soul. “I very nearly ruined him. I told him where he could go, what he could do, what he could wear even. And he accepted all of it, but I could see it was killing his spirit. He started to…to fade…. Like he was becoming less of himself and more a fainter, mirror image of myself….”

James stood and went to the window, looking out over the vacant town. He kept his back to me which I allowed out of respect for his sensibilities.

“I ended it eventually,” he confessed. “Somehow I got the courage to stop what I was doing before I destroyed him. I had to, there was no way it could have ended well otherwise. He took it hard. I’d got him to the point where he was so reliant on me that he couldn’t cope without me to tell him who to be. There was a suicide attempt. It was messy. But he got through it. We all did. And Imogen was there to pick up the pieces, to grasp the hollow shell I had left behind and to fill it with something real. They got married. I hope he’s happy, I really do. But I’ve kept that photo as a reminder of what I did. I feel like I owe it to him. I’m not proud of it, but it happened and I have to live with the consequences of my egomania.”

He lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, burying his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“So there you have it, Jeremy: Your perfect new lover was actually a vile philanderer, manipulating a young man just for the hell of it. How do you feel about me now, eh? Now that you know the truth?”

By way of an answer I crossed the room to him, embracing him from behind, kissing his hair.

“I’m sorry James,” I whispered tenderly. “I should have let sleeping dogs lie, but I couldn’t! I love you so much, the thought of you being with someone else……Ugh!” I shuddered.

He sagged in my encircling grasp, leaning his head back against my shoulder in a simple gesture of trust.

“The only reason I didn’t tell you before was because I was ashamed,” he told me. “You were pure: what had happened to you hadn’t been your fault and I didn’t want you to think I was like the one who had hurt you, so I kept my mouth shut. I’m so sorry, darling. It was wrong of me, I know that now.”

He turned in my arms to face me, his expression one of abject sorrow. His arms went around my waist, carefully, wary of rejection, but I enfolded him gladly and he sighed with relief, pressing his lips to my cheek.

“No more secrets from now on,” I implored. “Let’s make this a fresh start.”

We held each other as James promised me, but had I seen his face at that moment I doubt I’d have felt so comforted.


	13. Building Bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy meets Edd quite by accident and ends up suggesting a trip to Burma

In 2014 we went to Burma.

The idea was to buy lorries and travel across this country which had been largely closed to Westerners for over 40 years, go into Thailand and build a bridge over the River Kwai.

It was an unusual move brought about by unusual circumstances. I’ve always maintained that if one’s life was written as a film script it would be unbelievable and my theory was proved mere months after our Spanish Road trip.

 

James and I were at a vintage motor show deep in the English countryside. It was being held in Norfolk so we were pretty much guaranteed not to be recognised as not many people in Norfolk have TVs.

We were strolling along lines of MGs and Bentley’s and eating ice creams, enjoying the British sunshine, when I saw him.

I’d apparently encountered Edd China in 2002 even though I had no recollection of this meeting, but there was no mistaking the gangly form coming towards us now. He was hand in hand with a horsey-faced brunette and they were laughing as though my world hadn’t just fallen apart.

James spotted them almost at the same instant and we both stopped in our tracks. I watched his face closely, observing the complex array of emotions that seemed to flit over his features one after another in close succession.

My first instinct was to grab James’s hand and run – take us far from that place to some remote region where we wouldn’t have to face reality ever again. My next urge was to launch myself at Edd China and pull out his hair by the roots, clump after lustrous clump. But as I stood there, torn between fight and flight, I realised I was too late to take any course of action. Edd was upon us, his Norwegian wife in tow.

“James? My God, is that you?”

James shook himself as if coming out of a deep slumber. A weak smile struggled onto his face.

“Edd….wow! What are the chances? It’s good to see you. You look great!” He turned to the woman, whose face had suddenly turned icy. “Imogen,” he said politely.

She nodded at him curtly and squeezed her husband’s hand all the tighter.

“You remember Jeremy, of course?” continued James.

I silently cursed him for drawing attention to me, but turned to the younger man before me and forced myself to smile. The sun glinted into my eye, making me squint, as I had to turn my face upwards by a full 2 inches to meet his gaze. I felt miniscule and humiliated.

Although James had claimed full responsibility for the fiasco that had been their association, my devotion to him wouldn’t allow me to find fault with him and I had somehow made the conscious decision to place the blame entirely on China for what had happened. Every time I thought of the leggy young man with his full lips and wavy hair that was greying in such an interesting fashion I felt a burst of resentment at the way he had exploited James’s guilt. It was the only way I could reconcile myself with James’s past.

Meeting the man himself with the full knowledge of what had gone on between them made things no easier on my wounded pride.

“Good to meet you at last,” I lied, forcing the words from between gritted teeth.

Edd looked puzzled.

“We’ve met before….” He began, but I cut him off.

“Enjoying the cars? Lovely day for it! I expect you love all this don’t you? James has told me all about your….. _ special talents _ !”

The younger, taller man flushed, biting down on his bottom lip.

_ James used to kiss those lips _ , I thought wildly.

“Jeremy….” said James weakly, but I ploughed ahead regardless.

“I bet you’d love to get your hands under his bonnet again, eh, Edd? Have a good old fiddle with his pistons?”

My voice was rising but I seemed to have no control over it. Edd looked miserable and awkward, his wife angry. People were turning to look at us and I felt James’s restraining hand at my elbow.

“Well, you can keep your hands off him, me old China! He’s mine now, d’you hear me? Mine!”

“Jeremy!” James voice was louder now, with a harsh note that I would mourn later once I had calmed.

The rage within me was rising, made all the worse for the look of understanding and compassion now dawning on the other man’s face. He nodded to me and glanced at his wife.

“Let’s go,” he murmured. She nodded.

“Goodbye, James,” said Edd China and disappeared into the crowds. 

James and I stood watching their retreating backs. I felt ashamed at my behaviour, but I couldn’t turn back the clock. We were silent for a while.

“Did you know he was going to be here?” I asked finally. My voice sounded small and far away.

“I honestly had no idea, Jeremy. If I’d known I wouldn’t have risked coming. He’s the last person I wanted to meet!” James’s hand had slipped into mine, trying to reassure me, but my own hand felt cold and numb. “I thought we’d sorted all this out!” said James, exasperated. “I’ve apologised enough and I can’t change what’s happened in the past. Please, Jeremy, can’t we move on from this?”

I felt weak and defeated.

“Let’s just go back to the hotel,” I said.

We walked back to our car, passing a field full of cows whose vacant, bovine gaze summed up all the dissatisfaction I felt. A cloud had moved over the sun and the afternoon had taken on a distinct chill.

We didn’t talk until we got back to the hotel and went up to our room. It was a small place, full of rustic charm and chintzy fabric. I had been delighted with it that morning when we’d booked in, looking forward to spending the night in the squashy bed and looking out of the window at the rolling hills, but I felt so disenchanted now I found it difficult to muster up any enthusiasm.

James kicked off his shoes and flung himself on the bed with a sigh. I tried not to look at him lying there: If I did, I would end up next to him and once he got me into bed there would be no more discussion. James was very good at distracting me.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I announced. I felt dirty from the encounter at the motor show as well as being actually dirty from the dust stirred up on the little country roads. James propped himself up on his elbow and watched as I began to undress.

In defiance of my mood, as always the feel of James’s eyes on me was divertingly arousing and I tried hard not to let it affect me, but when I took off my jeans my body’s response was obvious. I heard James make an unconscious noise of approval as his stare lit on the lazy lob cradled in my briefs.

I quickly turned my back to him, but that left him with an unobstructed view of my soft, plump buttocks. I sensed him stirring on the bed.

“Jeremy…”

His voice was husky and wheedling. I closed my eyes, drawing all the strength I could from my inner resources. I found him irresistible and wanted nothing more than to join him on the bed and forget about everything in a vigorous, messy union, but if I did that the subject would be closed again. I did not know how to resolve it and that very fact made me furious.

“Don’t, James,” I begged. Oh, how I wanted him!

His hand touched the small of my back, warm and persuasive. He rubbed gently in a soothing circular motion.

“I think we need to get away for a bit,” he said slowly.

“I thought that’s what this was?” I said, gesturing to the room without turning round.

“No, I mean out of the country. Do another road trip or a Special,” he proposed. “You know you always feel better when you’ve been abroad.”

It was true, but I still felt like he was manipulating me. His fingers wandered around my spine and I couldn’t help but shudder.

“Why don’t you suggest it to Andy?” He spoke as if he was unaware of the reaction he was provoking and part of me cursed him while the other part rejoiced in the sensation.

“Where will we go?” I wondered.

“We’ll have a think,” said James, slipping his finger under the waistband of my pants and sliding it down the cleft of my bottom. “I’m sure something will……come up….”

 

We made love in the shower, coming out looking like a pair of prunes and James suggested a quick lie down to recover before dinner.

There was a small TV in the room and I wiped the dust off it before turning it on.

“Oh,  _ Bridge Over the River Kwai _ !” I remarked. “What a great film!”

 

And that’s how we ended up going to Burma.

 

I hadn’t been keen on the idea of lorries but I’d been distracted during the production meeting: The night before, James and I had tried something “different” and I was still a little sore. It had been at my own urging, but I still felt ashamed by what we had done – and by how much I had enjoyed it.

James guiltily caught my eye over the boardroom table every time I rubbed at my shoulders or wrists, making me blush at the memories, but his solicitude was evident and I had to smile at him to allay his concern. We both felt a little strange about our new play, but there was no denying the ferocity of the orgasms it had brought us. Even though I had only suggested the introduction of some light bondage because I was worried about James getting bored, I was so delighted with the results that I knew I would be making the suggestion again in the near future……..

“It would make sense to use lorries if you’re going to be building a bridge,” Andy Wilman was saying. “Don’t you agree, Jeremy?”

“Hmm…” I agreed absently, remembering the silken feel of the blindfold.

“It will be hard work too,” said Andy Wilman. “And hot!”

“Lovely,” I muttered, feeling a twinge in my shoulder blades as  I relived the moment that James had fastened the dressing gown cord to the headboard.

“Great! Well, that’s all settled then. I’ll get the details sorted out. Meeting over, let’s go to the pub!”

“Perfect….” I purred, closing my eyes and surreptitiously touching myself beneath the table.

 

With only myself to blame, I tried to make the best of a bad situation. I purchased what I referred to as a “sport’s lorry”, a yellow Isuzu tipper truck that I was sure would be very useful. As in Africa, we would end up converting our lorries to double as accommodation and I wanted to ensure I had plenty of scope for a sleeping/lovemaking area.

James wasn’t so lucky, getting stuck with a lorry with a crane attached. It would be perfect for building the bridge, but the lack of space meant he had to purchase a free-hanging tent which he would suspend from the crane. Upon seeing it, we immediately began to make plans for some humorous escapades involving James, the tent, the crane and his pretend fear of heights we had introduced when we were in Bolivia whilst driving along the infamous “Death Road”.

I had come dressed in a shirt and tie, because “ I am a modern lorry driver and modern lorry drivers are crisp and sharp. The days are over when you simply turned up with a glove box full of strong pornography and egg on your vest". In reality, I’d had to think of reasonable excuse for packing a series of ties to bring on a trip to Burma. The ties were silk and had many erotic uses.

Hammond turned up with a glove box full of strong pornography and egg on his vest. James and I exchanged worried glances at his appearance. Hammond had been acting strangely off-camera recently, but had refused to divulge what was wrong. I had resolved to take The Hamster to the zoo when we were in England to get to the bottom of his attitude, but I hadn’t got around to it. Was he feeling neglected of late? Was I spending too much time with James and not paying him enough attention? I had to find out!

We started our route from Rangoon, planning to go across the Shan State to get to Northern Thailand. Our lorries were as atrocious as expected.

Whilst the cameras were rolling, everything was fine: Hammond joined in with the banter and got up to the usual hi-jinks with us, but something was lacking, some spark of his previous simple spirit and it bothered me a great deal. Maybe he was going through an awkward, teenaged phase, finding his rebellious streak. If so, I didn’t like it a bit!

To try and cheer him up, I suggested an amusing diversion: We would run out of fuel in a remote area and would borrow horses to ride to the nearest town to buy diesel. Hammond had always loved horseback riding and to my relief he beamed at my suggestion and showed his first sign of enthusiasm since the trip had begun. 

Everything went to plan until James and I discovered that horses weren’t cars and were actually difficult to control. James and I had made particularly sweaty love that morning and I hadn’t had chance to shower since, so the horses were driven to distraction by the musk we were giving off. Consequently, the filming was brought to an abrupt halt when Hammond’s horse tried to mount James’s mare and Hammond was flung from his saddle, fracturing his wrist.

James and I watched regretfully as Hammond was driven off to the nearest medical centre. He had refused to allow us to go with him and I think that hurt me more than the horse riding had hurt my testicles.

When Hammond got back, he was even sulkier than usual and his wrist was in a cast. I tried to console him, but he wasn’t having any of it and I could swear there was sheer resentment in his eyes. I decided that he was probably tired and suggested we set up camp for the night.

We ate and drank beer as was our custom, but we’d also managed to score some local spirits with amusing names like  _ Hong Thong _ .

Hammond insisted on trying some and against our better judgement we allowed him. We had a good laugh at his spluttering and coughing until he got used to it and started swigging it back willy nilly. Concerned he would get drunk, James tried to take the bottle from him.

“Geroff!!” slurred Hammond belligerently, snatching the bottle from James’s reach.

“Come on now, Hammond,” said James reasonably. “You’re not used to it. It’ll give you a headache.”

“Don’t care,” sulked Hammond. “You never let me do anything fun!”

“That’s not true!” I protested. Hammond regarded me with bloodshot eyes and took a deliberate sip of Red Cock.

“It’s time for bed anyway,” interjected James. “We’ve got an early start in the morning and we don’t want you to be all tired and grumpy.”

“I’m not going to bed!” shouted Hammond. “I’m going to stay up all night drinking!”

“No you are not, young man!” I got to my feet, drawing myself up to my full height and Hammond cringed.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” he snarled. “You’re not my dad!”

I wagged a finger under his nose. “You’d better start behaving yourself or you won’t be allowed on the next Special!” I warned.

“Yes I will!” he squeaked. “You can’t leave me out! The girls love me!”

I was at a loss. I wasn’t used to this Hammond, the drunk stroppy one who wouldn’t play nicely. He’d always been such a good-natured little fellow who idolised me and did what he was told that I didn’t know what to do when confronted with this rascal.

Suddenly, James was at my side, looking stern. He folded his arms across his chest.

“Hammond, if you don’t go to bed now the monster that lives in those bushes will get you,” he announced.

Hammond’s eyes flicked nervously to the side.

“What – those bushes?” he asked, his voice suddenly small.

The wind obliged us by suddenly ruffling the leaves on the bush nearest us and Hammond jumped to his feet.

“What was that?” he whispered.

“Uh oh,” said James theatrically, nudging me. I took the hint and picked up on the ploy.

“It might be an  _ Arathaso _ ,” I suggested. “A malevolent Burmese demon that lives in trees.”

“But that’s a bush,” pointed out Hammond in hushed tones, his eyes glued to the leafy plant.

“They’re not very clever, if I recall,” I said. “But they are very vicious to make up for it.”

“Quick Hammond,” urged James. “Jeremy will distract it, let’s get you to your truck. It won’t be able to get you in there!”

Hammond nodded, all his drunken bravado gone. The mostly empty bottle fell from his trembling fingers and as the wind gusted the bush’s foliage with increasing violence Hammond turned tail and ran, James following close behind at a brisk walk.

I sighed in relief. It was a rotten trick and I felt guilty for playing it on Hammond, but I really didn’t know how to handle this new Hamster. I only hoped he wouldn’t have nightmares.

James returned shortly afterwards, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what’s got into that boy,” he mourned. “He never used to be like this!”

“Is he sleeping now?” I asked.

“Passed out, more like,” sighed James. “I put a bucket next to him in case he’s sick. Poor little sod. He was terrified. I do feel a bit mean for scaring him like that.”

I stood and enfolded him in my arms.

“You did the best you could,” I soothed, kissing his hair. With a sigh of pleasure, James relaxed into my embrace, laying his head on my shoulder. “And it was very quick thinking.”

“Well, I know you always research scary things in the countries we visit. I just had to hope you’d researched local folklore!” said James, snuggling into me, his arms snaking around my waist.

“You know me so well,” I chuckled.

“Oh, I do….” He said. “For instance, I know you can’t resist it when I do……. this…….”

He was right. I couldn’t. James led me to my bed and we spent the next couple of hours wallowing in ecstasy.

 

We got up early the next morning and as soon as the film crew arrived we staged a prank in which I hoisted James high above the ground in his tent because his snoring had kept me awake. It was hysterical, but even though Hammond joined in the hilarity I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. I put it down to being hungover and his wrist hurting and was determined to think nothing more of it, but as we started off towards James’s lorry to winch him back down, Hammond’s voice stopped me in my tracks.

“His snoring doesn’t bother you when it’s right next to you,” he said.

I turned to him, looking down at the hostile little face glaring back up at me. For a moment I almost believed that the voice had been in my head, as I couldn’t reconcile the spiteful tone with the familiar countenance.

“What?”

Hammond smiled at me, a bitter attempt at the expression that was more like a grimace.

“You heard me,” he hissed. “We both know he didn’t sleep in that tent last night.”

For once I was lost for words. My mouth opened and closed a couple of times but I couldn’t for the life of me decide how to respond. Taking advantage of my momentary muteness, Hammond moved in closer, gritting his teeth as he snarled:

“Why do you lie to me all the time?” he demanded. “I’m not stupid! I know what you two are doing!”

I thought about denying it. I thought about pleading ignorance and insisting that Hammond was mistaken, but the truth must have been plain in my eyes because the lad subsided with an aspect of grim satisfaction. I had been wearing my heart on my sleeve for far too long now and it was naïve of me to think that James and I had been able to keep our love a secret all this time. My shoulders sagged in defeat.

“You’re right, of course,” I admitted. “Does it bother you?”

Hammond looked surprised at the question and for a moment I couldn’t fathom why. I wondered if perhaps he hadn’t contemplated that we would consider his opinion in the matter. I watched as he struggled to retort.

James’s voice drifted down from the tent where he was suspended.

“What’s going on down there?”

Was it my imagination, or did he sound worried? Could he grasp any of the animosity on Hammond’s face or the despairing manner of my bearing? I didn’t dare break eye contact with Hammond to look up at my love.

“If it does bother you, that would make us sad,” I told him evenly, “But it wouldn’t change how we feel about each other. We’re in love, Hamster, pure and simple.”

Hammond snorted.

“Pure?” he scoffed. “There’s nothing pure about the sounds coming from your bed every time we travel!”

“Our love  _ is _ pure, Hammond! Say what you like about us, you have no right to dispute the truth of that!”

“If it’s so pure why did you lie to me?” he challenged.

“We didn’t exactly lie,” I protested. “We just kept the truth from you. We didn’t do it to hurt you, Hammond, that was never our intention. We just didn’t know how to bring it out in the open. God knows, I’ve wanted to shout it from the rooftops before now!”

Hammond’s face was twisted and I thought it was from rage right up to the second he burst into tears.

“Why do you love James more than me?” he sobbed. “Why does he love you more than me?”

“It’s not that we love you any less!” I objected. “It’s a different  _ kind _ of love, Hammond! James and I are  _ in love _ .”

Hammond sniffled and tried to wipe his eyes on his cast with minimal success.

“How is it different?” he asked. “Is it because it of willies?”

I had to laugh despite the seriousness of the situation, and Hammond shot me a disgruntled look.

“Not quite, Hammond, but it’s close,” I chuckled, reaching out to ruffle his hair. For a second he stiffened and I thought he would duck away from my affectionate hand, but he allowed the gesture.

“We both still love you,” I reassured him. “You’re still our special Hamster. I’m sorry if you’ve felt left out but I promise you that will change now. We’ll do more together, as a family, you’ll see. We’ll make it up to you”

“Okay.” Hammond lifted the hem of his vest and blew his nose. Above our heads, James’s voice had become more urgent and I gave Hammond’s shoulder a last squeeze before turning back to the crane to let James down. As I walked away, Hammond’s voice piped up one more time.

“So does that mean James was in love with me that time we did that thing in the car?” he inquired innocently, little realising the arrow that pierced my heart with his words.

  
  



	14. No Country For Old Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doubts have emerged at Hamster's revelations

If the revelation about Edd China had hurt me, Hammond’s innocent confession wounded me almost mortally.

I was in nearly crippling emotional agony as I continued on my way to James’s lorry, thoughts and images racing through my head faster than I could comprehend them. Foremost in my mind was a sickening mental image of me toggling the crane’s controls to send James hurtling down and crashing into the ground.

With a shudder, I stopped walking. I knew I couldn’t allow myself to operate James’s crane whilst such murderous thoughts were teeming in my mind I abruptly turned on my heel and set off at an angle, escaping James and Hammond in one move.

“Someone let James down,” I bellowed, relieved that my voice sounded normal to my own ears. “I’m bursting for a piss!”

Behind me, I heard subordinates spring into action to obey my command and two voices joined to echo my name: One high and piping, the other deeper and nasal. I ignored them. If I looked at either of them now my pain would be all too apparent.

I cursed as I staggered into the bushes, the tears already beginning. They were tears of anguish and rage combined.  _ Damn James! _ I swore in my head.  _ Damn the man and his wandering cock! Couldn’t he ever keep the thing to himself? _

I seethed as I wandered further into the foliage, my only thought to hide away for a while until I could control my features. I tipped my head back in an attempt to stop the tears from spilling out over my cheeks: There was nothing more I wanted than to have a bloody good bawl and get the whole mess out of my system, but I knew if I started I wouldn’t be able to stop and everyone would be aware of my torment.

I don’t know how long I stayed in the jungle, wrestling with my emotions, but when I finally returned the crew didn’t seem to be conscious of my inner struggle. I put on my bravest face and my stiffest upper lip and we set about the business of the day. Only Hammond and James noticed anything amiss and watched me cautiously. James raised a questioning eyebrow which I chose to ignore. I would deal with them both later.

 

“Out with it, man,” said James, feigning light-heartedness. “Something’s been bothering you all day.”

We had set up camp for the night. I had picked listlessly at my food, but was hitting the Hong Thong hard. I was sat in a folding chair by the edge of our campfire staring moodily into the flames when James attempted to engage me.

I couldn’t look at him – my beloved Judas, betraying me with his lies once again.

He pulled up another folding chair next to mine, sitting close but instinctively not as close as he normally would. Hammond was playing with some toy cars at the other side of the fire, but his gaze constantly returned to us, flicking from one to the other, aware that something was wrong but not sure what it was.

“Come on, Jezzer,” cajoled James, placing his hand on my knee surreptitiously. “Something’s up. What’s going on?”

I looked at James and something must have showed in the mirthless nature of my smile as it made him physically recoil, snatching his hand from my knee.

“What’s going on, eh?” I drawled through gritted teeth. “Interesting question, James. Why don’t you ask Hammond?”

“Why? Does he know?” James’s forehead was creased in bewilderment but he must have sensed the danger coming from me.

“You could say that, James. He knows a lot more than we gave him credit for. For instance – he’s known about us for a while.”

“Really? Good God. Is he ok with it?” James looked across the fire at Hammond with concern. I searched his face for any sign of recognition, any indication of lust, unrequited or otherwise, but saw only friendly solicitude.

“He’s ok. Just a little confused. Possibly jealous.”

“Jealous? In what way? Oh dear – have we been neglecting him? That would explain his attitude of late. Do you want me to talk to him?”

James was being so reasonable and caring it was hard for me to focus on my anger, but I couldn’t let the subject lie. We would have this out.

“I’d rather you talked to me actually James. You see, Hammond told me something interesting while you were up in the crane.” I watched his face carefully. I could see only honest puzzlement in those well-loved lines and for some reason this enraged me further. I leaned forward so my face was close to his, speaking in a low voice so Hammond wouldn’t hear. “Tell me Hammond is lying about what you did in the car together,” I whispered. “Tell me he was mistaken or confused.”

Slowly, like the rising of the sun, realisation began to dawn on James’s face. I saw it spread over his features like corrupted sunlight.

“No….” he whispered.

“No what?” I replied. “No it’s not true or no he wasn’t mistaken?”

James buried his face in his hands, a low noise of despair coming from his throat. Hammond looked up in alarm.

“Oh dear lord, why did this come back to haunt me?” James keened rhetorically. I didn’t answer because of the rhetoric nature of the question. He grabbed me by the arm, his eyes wild. “Jeremy, you have to believe me, this is not what you think!”

“But I don’t know what I think, do I?” I snarled. “Because once again you, in your wisdom, have failed to inform me of an incident in your past that affects both of us!”

“I forgot!” James wailed. “Truly and honestly, I just forgot!”

His face was desperate and he clutched onto my arm with vice-like fingers.

“Jeremy, please,” he begged. “Hear me out before you judge! I can explain.”

I looked at him for a long time, studying him. He was my James, the love of my life, the most sensitive soul I knew, but at times I felt I barely knew him at all. He had so many layers, unpeeling like an artichoke when least expected. If I heard him out now and we moved on from this, would I ever truly be free? Or would I be under his spell once more, kept there until the next revelation?

Oh, but he was so handsome. His jaw was lined with 2 days’ worth of grey stubble and to look at it was to remember how it felt grazing my skin when he kissed me. His watery eyes were affixed on me with such concentration I had to force myself to look away lest he hypnotised me with his beauty. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to believe him.

“Hammond,” I called weakly. “Why don’t you go to bed? James and I need to talk.”

Hammond needed no further urging and, gathering up his toys, ran pell-mell towards the safety of his truck. He would go without his bedtime story tonight, for which I was truly regretful, but this conversation had to happen now.

We waited until we heard the tailgate of his truck slam.

“Go on then,” I said. “Tell me.”

James could not or would not look at me.

“Series 5. Episode 4,” he said dully.

Something about that jogged my memory.

“Not the Smart Forfour?” I asked incredulously.

“The very same,” he confirmed miserably.

Back in 2004 we had reviewed the Smart ForFour. The brochures claimed that the interior of the car had been “designed like a lounge” To test this theory, James and Hammond had spent 24 hours in the car, from 9am one morning until 9am the following morning, without once getting out.

“So what happened in the Smart Forfour?” I asked.

“It was an accident,” mourned James.

“An accident? Oh, well, now you put it like that I can see how it could happen: You’re swapping seats and whilst you’re climbing over Hammond your penis slips into his mouth and Bob’s your uncle!”

“It wasn’t like that,” he protested. “It was just so…intimate. And we were stuck in there for a full 24 hours.”

“So…. What? You were so turned on by the sound of each other pissing into bags that you simply couldn’t help yourselves?”

“Look, Jeremy, do you want me to tell you what happened or not?” demanded James.

I subsided into my seat, sulking. Slowly, James began to speak. He was a good story teller and as the story unfolded it was as though I was there in that car with him….

 

_ They had driven around Kent all day, asking passers-by to go into shops and purchase pasties and tea for them so they didn’t have to get out of the car. They’d been getting on well, laughing and joking, even when they’d stopped at the beach and Hammond had had to use one of the special “wee bags” he’d brought, filled with crystals that would absorb the liquid and odour. It had been horrifically intimate, somehow even more so than being next to each other at urinals in a public toilet. James had turned the radio on and tried to concentrate on his crossword but the knowledge that Hammond was perched in the back seat with his penis poking into a plastic bag made him horribly uncomfortable. _

_ Their final stop of the day had been Pluckley, the most haunted village in England, boasting 12 different ghosts. They were to spend the night in the Screaming Woods, the reasoning being that if they could spend the night comfortably in the car there they could do it anywhere. _

_ Hammond had been scared at first: The script had required James to read out a description of each of the village’s ghosts and once they were in the woods there were no lights except the moon when it emerged from behind the fitful clouds. _

_ James felt sorry for Hammond. With just some flimsy panes of glass between them and the wild night, he could understand Hammond feeling vulnerable and even though James had insisted that there was no such thing as ghosts he could tell Hammond remained unconvinced. In the end he had wrapped the younger man in a blanket and cuddled up to him, both for warmth and companionship. _

_ He talked for as long as he could, using his most soothing voice, talking about innocent things like holidays and horse-riding, trying to keep Hammond distracted, but eventually his eyes grew too heavy and he fell asleep. _

_ When he awoke it was still dark. Something had disturbed him, some almost imperceptible movement or some isolated noise. He stayed very still in the darkness, listening. _

_ He heard a fox, or possibly some badgers, not far away. It was an other-worldly noise at the best of times, but sat in a small car in the middle of some haunted woods the eeriness tripled in intensity. Had that been what had woken him? _

_ He caught his breath as the car moved. A slight jiggling on the suspension, that was all, but he felt it. Was someone outside? He looked and saw nobody, but his skin crawled at the thought of some spectral entity stood just outside the window, staring in at them. _

_ “Hammond,” he whispered. “Are you awake?” _

_ A soft snore was his only reply and despite their close proximity James had never felt so alone. _

_ The car moved again, this time more forcefully. There was another sound outside, an all too human sound of shuffling feet moving around in the fallen leaves. James sat bolt upright, clutching his blanket around him. _

_ “Who’s there?” he called out hoarsely and Hammond stirred beside him. _

_ Was that a voice on the wind? A sad sigh of some lonely lost soul? Growing more and more frightened, James pressed his face to the window and peered outside. A thick fog had begun to form and he could see nothing of their surroundings. Feverishly, he checked that the doors were locked. He was feeling more and more strongly that they weren’t alone. Cupping his hands around his eyes he continued his vigil of the forest, only to gasp as Hammond sat up behind him. _

_ “James?” Hammond’s voice was a whimper. _

_ “Go back to sleep,” James urged, trying to keep the shaking from his voice. To his relief he sounded calm and in control. _

_ “But who’s that outside?” asked Hammond plaintively. _

_ James turned violently in his seat and there, to his horror, was a ghastly face pressed to the window on Hammond’s side. Without thinking, he grabbed the younger man’s shoulder and pulled him closer, away from the apparition. _

_ The face’s features were hideous, far too pale with deeply sunken eyes and a mouth that was too wide and gaping. As the two men watched with horror, the mouth opened wider still emitting a shrill shriek that tore into their souls. _

_ “I command that you leave in the name of Jesus Christ!” bellowed James, making the sign of the cross in the air as he clutched Hammond to him. The face in the window roared and backed away. _

_ “Can it get in?” Hammond was shivering uncontrollably. _

_ “I don’t think so,” replied James. _

_ They waited. The face did not reappear. _

_ “I think it’s gone – “ James began, but at that the car began to vibrate again. Fine tendrils of mist began to creep through the cracks in the insulation, the air vents, the keyholes. The two men clutched at each other as the car began to fill, helpless to stop the encroaching fog. James tried to speak, to adjure it to leave, but the mist filled his mouth. He gagged as it stroked the lining of his throat, forced itself up his nostrils. Beside him, he was aware of Hammond convulsing as the same happened to him. _

_ Soon the interior of the car was opaque with the thick, smoke-like substance. James felt consciousness fading and with it his free will. As though he was watching from a distance, he saw himself turn to Hammond and kiss him deeply – an act that was returned with enthusiasm. Somewhere in the back of his mind his voice cried out for this to stop, but instead of obeying his body began to remove it’s clothes. Hammond, too, stripped, his body youngish and firmer and the two men caressed in the confines of the car, the mist swirling nightmarishly around them…….. _

 

I stared at James. He looked back at me, his gaze unwavering, as I struggled to find the words to express my emotions. It had been an extraordinary tale.

Finally, I was able to speak.

“James, do you really fucking expect me to believe that heap of excrement?” I thundered.

James’s shoulders sagged and he hung his head.

“Not really,” he confessed. “But it sounds much better than  _ Hammond and I gave each other hand jobs in the back of a surprisingly spacious small car. _ ”

“But why, James?” I pleaded.

“I don’t know!” James threw up his hands. “It was just who I was back then. We’d only known each other a couple of years and I’d been a good boy – hadn’t shagged a single cameraman – but then I was shoved in a car with a good mate for 24 hours and it just….happened. I was dropping off to sleep, Hammond started having a sly wank, I joined in, before we knew it we were finishing each other off and going to sleep. That was the sum total of it. We never spoke about it again and we certainly never  _ did _ anything like it again.”

I struggled with my feelings. This tale, unlike the previous one, had a ring of truth about it, but even if it were accurate I wasn’t sure how I felt. Hammond and James had shared an intimacy, albeit 10 years ago, that I had known nothing about.

I tried to remember how I had felt about James back then. Had I begun to love him at that point? I didn’t think so – although there had certainly been that attraction, burning away inside like an ember of a fire built by the God of Lust. I looked back on our time together, all three of us, and tried to remember if there had ever been any inkling of what had gone on between Hammond and James – whether there had ever been any sign of something more than the loyal comradeship I always thought they’d shared. I could honestly not think of any such tell-tale moment.

James sat, patient and earnest, such love and anguish on his face I wanted to forgive him and take him to our bed, but I knew I couldn’t do that just yet.

“I’ll talk to Hammond tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll see if he independently verifies your version of events. If he does…..well, we’ll go from there.”

“All right,” said James quietly. “I understand.” He paused. “Where will I sleep tonight?”

I sighed. Difficult though it was, I forced the answer out.

“I think you’d better sleep in your tent, James.”

James nodded, standing.

“Very well. I’ll bid you goodnight then, Jeremy.”

With a little bow, he turned on his heel and began to walk back to his lorry. I ached watching him go, seeing the proud manner in which he carried himself, knowing he was hurting inside, but I did not stop him.

As I lay in my empty bed that night, its double mattress feeling vast with his absence, I found sleep difficult. Over and over I thought about what had happened, what had been said. Dammit, we were too old for this!

The next day I confronted Hammond. He knew something was wrong and that it was something to do with what he’d said the day before, but I could tell he wasn’t sure what. I did my best to reassure him.

“First of all, Hamster, I want you to know that you’re not in any trouble and nobody is cross with you.” I patted him on the shoulder. “I just want to ask you about what you said yesterday. Do you think you can tell me?”

“I think so,” said Hammond cautiously.

“And can you be honest with me? No fibs?” I asked.

Hammond puffed up his chest.

“I don’t tell fibs!” he retorted, offended.

I smiled.

“Ok, I’m sorry. Just tell me what happened when you and James spent that day in the Smart ForFour.”

Hammond’s face scrunched up with concentration.

“It was a long time ago….” He worried.

“I know. Just tell me what you can remember,” I beseeched.

“Well, we drove around all day and then we had to sleep in the scary woods.” He glanced sideways at me. “I wasn’t scared, though.”

“I’m sure you weren’t!” I agreed heartily. “You’re very brave.”

He nodded, satisfied, and went on with his tale.

“Anyway, because it was so scary – I mean cold, it was cold – I couldn’t get to sleep and sometimes there’s this thing I do…..” he looked embarrassed and I smiled reassuringly, nodding at him to continue. “It feels nice and sometimes it helps me sleep,” he confessed, fidgeting with discomfort.

“I think I know what you’re referring to,” I told him solemnly. “There’s a big word for it. It’s called  _ masturbation _ . It’s quite normal and lots of people do it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Really?” His cheeks were red and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

“Really,” I confirmed. “So anyway – you couldn’t sleep so you decided to masturbate. What happened then?”

“Well, I thought James was asleep,” he said. “But just as I was really getting going I heard him undo his zip and that’s when I realised he was doing the same thing.”

“How did you feel about that?” I asked.

Hammond put his head on one side and pondered.

“Well…..” he considered. “It felt nice knowing he did it too. And it was nice being in the car with him while he was doing it. It felt cosy. Like we were sharing something.”

“And then what happened?”

“It was taking a long time. I think because it was cold. So James said something like: Why don’t we help each other out? So we did.”

“And how did that feel?”

Hammond surprised me with a big grin.

“It felt great!” he enthused. “James was really good at it, but I suppose he’s had a lot more practice, being older. And you know, that’s what mates do, isn’t it? They help each other out!”

I regarded Hammond, his sunny grin and innocent enjoyment shining in the Burmese sun.

“Yes, mates do help each other out,” I mused. “You and James are good mates, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Hammond. “Just like me and you. If you ever need me to help you out, I don’t mind.”

“That’s quite all right, Hammond,” I said hurriedly. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

“No, because you’ve got James to do that,  haven’t you?” he said, winking.

I smiled.

“Yes. Yes I have,” I told him, realising that no matter what had  happened James had given me more of himself in these past few years than he had given anyone else. That had to mean something, surely.

 

Things didn’t just go back to normal. After a revelation like that, they can’t.

We slept apart for the remainder of the trip. As much as I wanted to share the sights and experiences with my lover, I couldn’t allow the romance of the Burmese countryside to influence me, so resisted its charms along with James’s. We would see how things went back in the cold reality of England.

Things were tense, despite my best intentions and this could be seen in the finished edit of the episode 2. There was a repeat of the “hoisting James in the tent” incident, this one ending with him being dumped in the river. I tried to pretend it was a mistake, but he had been a little snappy with me the night before and the memory still rankled. It made for very droll viewing though and the camera crew were pleased even if James wasn’t.

In the end, the work was so hard we barely had time to squabble. We completed our challenge, built our bridge – “discovering” part of the way through construction that the river we were building it across was not the Kwai but the more amusing Kok – and drove our lorries over it.

It was oddly anti-climactic. I made a remark about the slanted angle of the bridge and later people said that I was making a racist referral the local man crossing it when I used the term “slope”, but that was of course nonsense. Formal apologies would have to be made, but I didn’t worry about that at the time: More worrying to me was the damage done to mine and James’s relationship. How could we weather this storm and come through the other side entirely unscathed?

 


	15. Building Bridges  (Figuratively) in Scotland

Back in England, away from the sultry Burmese nights and wild backdrop, I was able to gain a little more perspective. True, James had been too intimate with Hammond for my liking, but it had been long before we had set our sights on each other and it was as innocent as that kind of thing could have been. I was more upset with James’s failure to enlighten me about it. Maybe he truly had forgotten, maybe not. But how would I have reacted to that bombshell so soon after the Edd China disclosure? Perhaps it was for the best after all – I had to convince myself of that!

Within days of being back, I entered into a deep depression from which I could not be shaken. Telling nobody where I was going, I fled to mine and James’s highland hideaway, determined to wallow in self-pity and eat chocolates in my pants whilst watching Jeremy Kyle. The desolate surroundings and isolated location was a perfect foil for my mood and on the first morning there I rose early, unable to sleep and watched the grey dawn encroach. 

I have seen many dawns over the years, each one unique, each a promise of a new beginning, but that cold grey morn brought me no hope. It had a remote beauty in its pearly hue but it left me unmoved. I had risen under the blazing African sun, I had got out of bed to the perpetual daylight of the North Pole. I had explored some of the remotest corners of the world. But it had been with companionship that was beyond compare. Even before James and I had begun courting, just knowing he was there upon rousing myself from slumber made all the difference in the world. How could I ever continue without him?

We had spent the past year in a bliss I had never thought possible, but at what cost? Things would never be able to return to the way they had been before, so if I lost James now I would lose him forever. Oh, how I wished I could turn back time so I could do things differently!

Lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed the swirl of the fog shifting, but the movement caught my attention from the corner of my eye. The mist gained density, thickening and darkening until it formed the shape of a man…..

I gasped, clutching at the windowsill as the approaching figure gained clarity, its lines and gait becoming more familiar by the second. All other thoughts were driven from my mind at the sight of that well-loved form and I flew to the door, throwing the latch and running out into the chill of the morning. The dew dampened my bare feet, flicking up my legs as I ran to him, the cold air bringing goosebumps to my naked flesh.

And there he was, in all his glory, fantasy made solid, deep lines of worry etching his face. I slid to a halt before him.

“I knew you’d be here,” said James.

“Why did you come?” I asked. “I wanted to be alone!”

“Then why did you run to me, Jeremy?” His eyes travelled down the length of my body, then back up again. “And naked, no less?”

I blushed. How did he always do this to me?

“I had to be sure it was you and not some kind of cruel dream,” I confessed.

“A cruel dream? Am I cruel then, Jeremy?” he asked earnestly.

“No, James, the dream would only be cruel if you weren’t really there. If you vanished into the fog as I reached you…..” I gazed at him longingly. I wanted to touch him, but something held me back.

Solemnly, James took off his jacket and swept it around my shoulders, concealing at least some of my nakedness. But not all. It was a fairly short jacket.

“Am I allowed inside?” His voice was meek in a way that I had never heard. We both knew our future depended on my favour, but I hesitated. If I allowed him inside, there would be no going back. Passion would consume us, as it always did and I would be its slave.

“Only if we talk,” I said eventually. “We have to talk. Don’t….play those tricks you play when you want to divert me….”

“I swear I won’t,” vowed James. “Just give me a chance, Jeremy. And maybe a cup of tea?”

He smiled and I could not help but smile back.

“I could use one too,” I confessed. And hand in hand, we walked back to the cottage.

 

I made tea for both of us, pottering around the tiny rustic kitchen as James lit the fire to chase the chill from the stones. Whilst the kettle boiled, I hurried off to find something to wear, struggling into my old jeans and a thick woollen cardigan. I was taking a risk in wearing such an alluring outfit, but I couldn’t remain naked.

James raised his eyebrows as I walked into the room. He held the teapot poised over a bone china mug and it very nearly overflowed as he eyed the deep v-neck of my cardigan. Not wanting to flaunt myself too much, I did another button up as I sat opposite him.

“You look nice,” he mentioned approvingly, passing me a mug. I shrugged, trying to appear carefree as I added sugar, but his attention flattered me. Aware of his interest, I hurriedly raked my fingers through my curls, trying to tame their dishevelled appearance.

We sat, sipping tea, civilised. The sexual tension crackled like the logs in the fireplace.

“So where do we go from here?” asked James finally. “The ball’s in your court now, Jeremy.”

I found it hard to look at him, feeling coy yet determined. I instead studied the pattern on my mug as I answered, tracing the china-painted flowers with my finger.

“I’m prepared to move on, I think,” I said. “But there are certain conditions.”

“Anything!” swore James, but I held my hand up.

“Don’t be too hasty, James,” I cautioned. “You don’t know what the conditions are yet!”

“I don’t care!” growled James. “I can’t live without you, you’ve proved to me that much. I’ll do whatever it takes to have you back in my arms and back in my life!”

I felt weak from his words, swept away by his ardour, but forced myself to remain strong.

“I don’t want any more surprises,” I told him. “I can accept your past, but I don’t want any more bolts from the blue. I don’t want some tart crawling from the woodwork in days or weeks or years to come, laying some claim to you. I want to know up front who you’ve slept with and who you haven’t.”

James looked dumbfounded for a moment and I worried that I’d gone too far, but he leaned over the table with concern in his eyes.

“Jeremy….you do realise the list might be quite long, don’t you?” he warned. “I was…. Well, to put it bluntly: I was a bit of a slut in years gone by.”

I sighed.

“I know that James. It’s hard for me to come to terms with, but I know. That’s why I’ve made a list.”

“What sort of list?” he asked warily.

“A list of guests who have been on Top Gear. I only want to know about them. Also, if someone in the future comes along that you had a connection with in the past, you must tell me before they come on the show.”

James nodded slowly.

“That seems fair,” he said agreeably.

Satisfied, I stood to get the crumpled list from my pocket. My jeans were snug against my hips – probably a little too snug, and it was difficult to extract the list without pushing my groin forward. James watched the proceedings with interest, a wicked smirk on his lips that I wanted to kiss away.

Finally, though, the list was on the table and James proceeded to read it.

“Right. I haven’t been with Harry Enfield or Jay Kay. Ross Kemp…. I believe there may have been a drunken one-night stand a long time ago, but that may have been the other one – the one who plays Phil Mitchell.”

“Steve McFadden?”

“Yes, it could have been him. I haven’t done anything with Steve Coogan or Jonathon Ross but Rick Parfitt and me had Tantric sex when we were in our twenties, so that was a very long time ago. Sir Michael Gambon….no. Though I tried, I was quite the fan girl.” He sighed, running his finger down the list. “Gordon Ramsay: No. Vinnie Jones: No. Jamie Oliver: No. David Soul…..Yes. It’s David Soul, of course I would. Boris Johnson, Richard Whitely, Neil Morrissey: No, no and no. Patrick Stewart: Yes. Alan Davies: No.”

My head swam as he worked his way down.

“Martin Kemp: Yes. Stephen Fry…….Yes…..”

“Stephen Fry?” I had thought myself unshockable, but that shook me. “But he’s a raving homosexual!”

“I know, I know,” James sighed, looking embarrassed. “It was a long time ago, I was curious……” His shoulders rose and slumped in a graceless shrug. “You don’t think too badly of me, do you?”

My mind reeled, but I pictured James as a young man: well-spoken, well-read, sensitive, intellectual, experimental…..Yes, I could see how it could happen.

“It’s all right,” I conceded. “I was just a tad surprised.”

His relief was palpable as he continued.

He admitted to Paul McKenna but firmly maintained that the man had hypnotised him. He confessed to Lionel Richie, Martin Clunes and to a quick snog from Roger Daltrey – a fact that made me unbelievably envious, as Daltrey had always been a huge idol of mine. He denied Cliff Richard, although Cliff apparently claimed otherwise and claimed Christopher Eccleston, Damon Hill and Tim Rice before coming to a reluctant halt. I could sense he was unwilling to go on.

“Come on James,” I urged. “Keep going. What’s wrong?”

“Chris Evans,” he said sadly.

“You did a ginger?” Somehow that was more shocking than James sleeping with a gay man.

“I’m not proud of it. I don’t even like the man! But he’s very persuasive…..”

“Ok, ok,” I waved my hands. “Go on.”

James rushed through the rest of the list in fifth gear.

“Trevor Eve. Rick Wakeman. Ray Winstone. Dermot Murnaghan. Anthony Worrall Thompson – he cooked me dinner too. James Blunt. Kevin McCloud.” He scanned the rest of the list wearily. “I think that’s it.”

I tried to absorb all the information he’d given me, but it was all too much. We sat in silence as we finished our tea.

“Well,” I said finally. “That’s got all that out of the way. What do you want to do for the rest of the day?”

James looked up in surprise.

“Really? That’s it?”

“Well, it’s a lot to process, but that’s what I asked you for. So yes, that’s it. Do you want to go for a drive?” I stood, meaning to clear away the tea things, but as I neared James my hip brushed against him. And there it was: That attraction, always present and ready to pounce, thrilling my nerve endings, turning my knees to jelly whilst making my man-handle stone-hard.

Ever alert to my moods, James picked up on my change immediately and needed no further encouragement. Setting down his cup he was on his feet in an instant, his hands on me. He kissed me with a fervour that took my breath away. I knew I should reject his advances, that it was too soon, but I was helpless beneath his touch. With one swift movement, he had swept everything from the scrubbed pine table: The teapot, the mugs, the sugar bowl and milk jug, even the pottery biscuit barrel I kept the shortbread in. The sugar tongs jangled as everything else crashed, the doilies fluttering to the flagstone floor.

Then I was on my back, spread-eagled on the table, James above me, his face devilish in its lust, angelic in its love.

“God, how I’ve missed you!” he moaned, his lips pressed against my sagging jowls. He was rough in his ardour, but not so rough I didn’t enjoy it. He tried and failed to undo the buttons on my cardigan, but they were the toggle type you find on duffle coats and difficult to undo. Instead, he grabbed it by the hem and dragged it upwards over my chest and neck. Something snagged around my head, the woollen garment stopping before it cleared my face, leaving my arms trapped inside it above my head and only my mouth free. I was essentially blindfolded and bound. I did not struggle: Instead I lay and revelled in my helplessness, in my trust of James and his tender mercies. The fact that I could not see what he was doing made every action a delicious surprise and he took full advantage of my vulnerability by teasing me in the way I so loved.

I gasped every time part of him touched me, every time I felt his fingers on my skin, his teeth in my flesh, his tongue in my orifices. My jeans were off before I even realised they were gone. Now I attempted to struggle, but only enough to reinforce my powerlessness, not enough to escape. He squashed my revolt with his body, playfully, pressing down enough with his weight to steal my resolve and leave me moaning with want. He knew what I wanted without my having to ask and I loved that.

I don’t know how long he tormented before he finally granted me sweet release, but every precious moment was fraught with blissful gratification. I felt thoroughly used and sore afterwards, but happy with it. Sensing my lethargy, James tenderly unwound me from my imprisoning cardigan, rubbing my smarting shoulders and cradling me in his arms. We didn’t speak: We did not need to. James tended to my needs, fetching me water to sip and chocolates to eat until I felt refreshed and recovered enough to get off the table and hobble to the living room, where he wrapped me in an eiderdown and settled me on the  _ chaise longue _ with the TV remote.

He had travelled all night, so went to shower and change whilst I lazed on the  _ chaise _ and watched repeats of Top Gear on Dave. I felt cosy and content, willing to lie there all day. James joined me after his shower and we snuggled together for a while, laughing at our own onscreen exploits and reminiscing about what was going on behind the scenes during particular excerpts.

Later, we went off-roading before James cooked us his speciality rosemary-roast lamb and we ate it by candle light.

It was a perfect day, full of love and fulfilment. Sadly, it was one of the last such days we would have for a while…….


	16. Chris Evans (Not the Captain America One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 3 Car Amigos meet a mentally unstable BBC Radio presenter

I’m glad James and I enjoyed our time while we could. We stayed in Scotland for a week, ignoring the increasingly frantic phone calls from Andy Wilman until he threatened to jump off the top of BBC Television Centre. Although we didn’t think he would really do it, we were both fond of Andy Wilman and didn’t want to take the chance. We knew we couldn’t dwell in our hedonistic utopia indefinitely. Real life beckoned and we regretfully said goodbye to our highland idyll and returned to reality.

Had we known what awaited us on our return, maybe we would have stayed in Scotland longer.

 

Hammond us greeted us in London like a cheerful puppy welcoming his master back into the house. It was wonderful to see him his old self again, the same old affectionate Hamster we had known before. James had saved him a handful of Scottish fudge and once he’d doled it out Hammond scampered into a corner to eat his treasure undisturbed.

James and I couldn’t help smiling at each other. It was too much to hope that things were back to “normal” but this was the best we could hope for. Hammond had overcome his jealousy, as had I, and from here onwards it would be plain sailing, surely.

How naïve I was.

Andy Wilman wasn’t quite so cheerful greeting us, but he was so relieved we’d returned he didn’t admonish us too harshly. He took us into his office, where James poured us both paper cups of water. He had been so solicitous of late, I adored it and felt truly pampered. It was odd - and the thought made me blush there in Andy Wilman’s office – that he could be so delightfully cruel in bed, teasing me and tying me and manipulating me, yet so caring and attentive in everyday life. He conceded directorial points and script ideas to me, bowing down and stepping back over debates concerning the program, never once trying to govern my wishes in Top Gear  matters. Yet in bed he was master, subjugating me to his will effortlessly, controlling me as he would an obedient puppet, making me dance to whatever tune his sordid heart desired. I loved the dichotomy. I loved him.

James winked at me as he handed me my water, setting my heart aflutter. I was wearing a long sleeved shirt to cover the chafe marks on my wrists from the previous night’s escapades. James had been disconcerted to see that he had left marks, but I liked them. Every time my cuffs rubbed the slight soreness I was reminded of the magic he had wrought, the ecstasy he had kindled.

I became aware that Andy Wilman was trying to get my attention and reluctantly dragged my mind out of bed. Both James and Andy Wilman were looking at me expectantly.

“Hmm? What?” I felt embarrassed at my lack of professionalism. Andy Wilman was scowling but James, damn him,  was coughing and holding his hand over his mouth to hide his smirk! He knew what I’d been thinking about. My face felt hotter than ever.

“I was telling James – and Richard of course – “ he glanced over to the corner where Hammond squatted, munching his fudge. “ – about the fundraising for  _ Children in Need _ taking place this year.”

“Okay. So you want us to do something?” I asked, all business-like.

“Not as such. I want you to help someone else do something. Gosh, Richard’s certainly packing that fudge away!”

James had another “coughing fit” in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal his laughter and I felt my own mouth twitch in response. Desperate to get back on track and avoid a meltdown, I sat up in my chair and slapped the desk.

“What do you want us to do?” I demanded.

Andy Wilman shuffled some papers.

“It’s the Chris Evans Breakfast Show. He’s doing an auction he’s calling the Dirty Dozen. He’s planning to auction off rides in 12 of his cars – The Magnificent Seven, which are 7 Ferraris and the Famous Five, which consists of a convertible Aston Martin, a Mini Cooper, a Jag, a Lambo and a Rolls Royce.”

James had stopped laughing abruptly at the mention of Chris Evans and was watching me anxiously. I remained outwardly serene, my chin high and proud, but inside I was in a turmoil. Evans had been on the show more than once. He had been a guest on Series 6, Series 14 and Series 18, but I hadn’t known then what I knew now. I can’t say I had liked the man, but I’d respected him.

“And you want us to do what, exactly?” I inquired calmly.

“I thought you could do a piece on the auction, do your bit for charity at the same time. You’re to meet him at his Berkshire home.”

“Very well.” I got to my feet. “Come – James – Hammond.”

With that, I swept imperiously from the office, James and Hammond tagging along behind.

James caught up with me in the corridor.

“Are you ok, Jeremy?” he asked worriedly.

I favoured him with a warm smile.

“I’m fine, James. It’s all in the past!” I beamed.

“Yes, it is, but that doesn’t mean….”

“Hush, darling,” I urged. “Let’s not discuss this now. We’ve a job to do.”

 

Chris Evans’s house shouldn’t really be described as such. It turned out to be a vast 17 th century mansion in Ascot, Berkshire and just as ostentatious as you’d expect. It was not nearly as tasteful as my own mansion in Chipping Norton.

Evans met us on a front driveway the size of Liechtenstein. He had a broad, slightly crazed smile plastered on his goofy face. He had aged a lot since his first appearance on Top Gear, beginning to go that weird shade of grey that only gingers can go.

“James! Jeremy! Richard! Great to see you!”

I noted that he had said James’s name first but was determined not to react. However, what happened next I could not ignore.

He bounded straight up to James, his hand extended as if to shake James’s hand, but instead of grasping James’s talented pianist’s fingers Evans grabbed my darling’s crotch roughly and went straight in for a kiss.

James reacted in horror, throwing up his hands to ward Evans off, pushing at the man’s chest as Evans plunged facewards with his tongue out and waggling. I leapt to James’s aid, grabbing the bastard’s wrist and attempting to wrest James’s genitalia from his iron clawed grip. Even Hammond, bless him, tried to help, throwing himself at the man’s ankles and biting through his sock like a terrier.

The incident lasted only a few seconds, with Evans releasing James and stepping backwards, laughing maniacally as he did so.

“Ha ha! Your face, James! What’s the matter, don’t like it rough anymore? God knows I used to ram your ass hard enough once upon a time!”

James was struck dumb with horror and I was likewise rendered speechless by the man’s coarseness. Hammond still worried at his ankle, but Evans paused long enough to deal him a vicious kick. I hurried over to pick up the yelping Hammond, helping him to his feet.

“Don’t you harm him, you monster!” I shouted. “What on earth is wrong with you, man?”

Evans grinned, his eyes glinting with deranged glee.

“Just a bit of fun, Clarky! No harm done, eh, little man?” He leaned down, pinching Hammond’s cheek a bit too hard.

“OW!” Hammond scowled at him, rubbing his face.

“Do you like Ferraris, eh? Do you?” asked Evans.

Hammond nodded cautiously.

“Well, I’ve got lots of them. Loads! All painted white!”

“Doesn’t that show the dirt?” asked Hammond. “Why did you paint them white?”

“Because I fucking love white cars, you little shit!” screeched Evans. Hammond recoiled, darting behind me. I pulled myself up to my full height, glowering at the aging ginger before me.

“Now look here, Evans. You behave yourself! You might scare Hamster but you don’t scare me. And you will not touch James again, do you hear?”

I sounded authoritative enough, but in truth I was secretly rather afraid of this strange man. He was unpredictable and that perturbed me.

“Well, well, well…..” Evans looked from me to James, then back again. “I can see which side your bread’s buttered on, boys. Been indulging in a bit of hanky-panky, have you? Pair of bum-chums, are you? Naughty, naughty!” He laughed. “Fair enough, no harm done, just a bit of fun!”

He turned and began striding down the path towards his home.

“What are you waiting for?” he called over his shoulder. “Come in! Come in!”

James leaned in closer to me.

“Are you ok, darling? How’s Hammond?” he murmured. I was touched. He had been crudely molested by this insane man, yet his concern was all for me and Hammond.

“I’m fine, but what about you?” I asked. “Did he hurt you?”

“A little squashed but essentially fine,” James said, waving my worry for him away.

“The man’s demented!” I remarked.

“He does seem to have got worse over the years,” James observed. “He wasn’t this bad when I knew him. He’s a lot more…..unhinged now.”

Behind me, Hammond was sucking his thumb.

“I don’t want to go in,” he said.

“Well, we have to I’m afraid,” I told him. “But don’t worry: I won’t let him hurt you again.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” I told him.

It was a promise that would come back to haunt me.

 

In the house, Evans welcomed us in as though nothing had happened, offering James and I coffee and Hammond lemonade. Hamster accepted it warily, sniffing it carefully before sipping and sneezing as the bubbles went up his nose. We all laughed and that made us begin to relax.

“So, you boys are doing a piece about my auction?” asked Evans. He sounded so normal I almost felt like I’d imagined all that had gone on outside mere minutes before.

“Yes,” I began. “Andy Wilman told us you’re auctioning rides in 12 of your cars for Children in Need. He thought it would be – “

“Wait a minute!” Evans sat upright, holding up a hand to quiet me. “Ssshh!”

We all listened. I heard nothing. James and I exchanged nervous glances.

Finally, Evans shook his head.

“Never mind,” he said. “What were you saying?”

“Well, I…….”

“Richard!” Evans interrupted me. “Would you like to go and look at the cars?”

“Cor! Yes please!” Hammond jumped to his feet excitedly.

Evans smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned forward and rang a bell and within moments a man in a suit had appeared.

“Giles, take Mr Hammond to go and look at the Ferraris, will you?” he ordered. “And don’t let him get his grubby hands all over the paintwork. He can sit in the Daytona Spyder as long as he takes his shoes off.”

Giles and Hammond disappeared out the door and we were left alone with Evans.

“Okay boys,” he said softly as the door closed behind them. “Let’s talk about why you’re really here, shall we?”

“What?” James’s forehead was creased in a deep frown of puzzlement. “We told you – it’s about the show!”

“A likely story….” Evans contemplated us over steepled fingers. “Strip!”

“What? How dare you!” James was on his feet in an instant, stepping slightly in front of me protectively.

“Coy, are we?” sneered Evans. “You never used to be! Or are you squeamish about me seeing your boyfriend’s winky? I know one of you is wearing a wire, so you’ll damn well strip or I’ll set the dogs on you!”

“Good God, man, you’re certifiable!” exclaimed James. “Jeremy, get Hammond! We’re leaving!”

“No you are not!” growled Evans, standing and ringing the bell again. The door flew open and some more men entered the room, each of them bigger than the last, all of them wearing black suits and dark glasses. “Not until you have done as you are told. I know the BBC has sent you to spy on me!”

“We came about the bloody charity auction!” I protested. “Neither of us is bugged, for god’s sake!”

“Oh, so it’s your little friend, is it?” Evans smiled slyly, reaching for his cell phone. “Shall I get Giles to search him? He’s very fond of Richard Hammond, is Giles. I’m sure he’d jump at the chance to….give him the once over….”

“You vile creature!” snapped James. “Leave Hammond alone! I’ll strip, damn you, if that’s what it takes!”

Evans sat back, grinning.

“That’s all I ask,” he said, making a great show of being reasonable.

I watched, horrified, as James began to undress, unbuttoning his shirt and unveiling his body in front of this room full of strangers. Evans watched with more interest than necessary, his tongue creeping out to wet his lips. The suited men’s eyes were unreadable behind their dark glasses, but they could not have remained unmoved by the sight of James’s body gradually becoming bare.

James stripped down to his tighty whities, his proud member barely contained by the flimsy garment. Evans eyed the sizable bulge, shifting in his chair with evident growing excitement.

“And the rest,” he said hoarsely.

Without further ado, James hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pulled them down to his knees in one swift movement, letting gravity take them the rest of the way to his ankles. He stood upright with a military bearing, his hands at his sides, naked in front of Evans and his goons.

There was a long silence.

“Satisfied?” asked James sardonically.

“Not yet, but I’m sure Jeremy has been well satisfied recently,” remarked Evans, his eyes fixed on the thick semi James perpetually sported. He nodded. “Okay. Now your boyfriend.”

“No!” James leapt forward, his hands flying to Evans’s throat, but he never got anywhere near him before Evans’s men intercepted him. They grabbed my love, knocking the wind from him, but still he struggled. “Not Jeremy!” he gasped.

I was paralysed with horror at what was transpiring. James was quickly overpowered by the mass of suited men, pinned to the floor in all his nude glory. Tears sprang to my eyes.

“Don’t hurt him!” I begged. “Please, I’ll do whatever you want, but please don’t hurt him!”

Evans stood, walking over to where the men had wrestled James to the floor.

“It seems your beloved has some common sense, James,” he said. “Stop struggling. I promise I won’t touch him. But he needs to take his clothes off so I can be sure he’s not recording.”

“Never!” James panted. “Jeremy, you don’t have to!”

I began to weep quietly. I couldn’t bear to see him harmed, roughed up by those oafs.

“It’s all right, James. I’ll do it. Don’t fight them anymore.”

James turned his face away, unable to look as I began to disrobe.

I tried to do it with the same quiet dignity James had shown, but my hands trembled as I fumbled with my buttons. The only sound in the room was that of many people breathing, mine quick and nervous, Evans slow and laboured, James shuddering and distraught. As I draped my shirt over the back of a nearby chair, I felt their eyes on me, shockingly intimate. I closed my own eyes, undoing my jeans and inching them down nervously. Evans made a noise of approval as my underwear became visible.

Finally it was done. I stood there, as James had done, but with far less courage. I had one hand attempting to cover my penis, the other thrown across my chest. I kept my eyes tight shut, not wanting to look at the men who were looking at me.

I sensed movement nearby as someone approached, smelled strong aftershave. When Evans’s voice came, it was so close it made me jump.

“James, you’re a lucky man,” he said huskily.

“Dammit, you swore you wouldn’t touch him!” came James’s voice from too far away.

“I’m not touching,” said Evans. “Just looking.”

It seemed like an eternity I stood there, Evans’s breath hot against me. He circled me several times, examining me from all angles.

“Bend over,” he instructed and I heard James gasp.

I began to sob, feeling thoroughly violated.

“Don’t worry,” said Evans soothingly. “I just want to make sure you’re not hiding anything up there.”

I didn’t believe him. He hadn’t made James bend over. I hesitated and from the other side of the room I heard James stifle a sound of pain.

“Don’t hurt him!” I pleaded again and, before I could change my mind, I bent over.

I felt him behind me, too close, but he kept his word and didn’t touch. My tears fell unchecked onto the carpet. I don’t know how long I stood there, exposed, but I heard noises behind me that sounded familiar enough and I knew I would be there until Evans had finished what he was doing.

Finally, our tormenter made a strangled noise and I felt something warm splash against the back of my legs. I gagged in revulsion, knowing what it was, but didn’t move. After a few more moments, I heard a zip being done up, and Evans spoke again, his voice more relaxed.

“Okay, I’m satisfied. You’re clear. You can get dressed. Let May up, boys.”

I knew as soon as James was on his feet he would make a move towards Evans, his mind set on revenge, and I couldn’t allow it. I rushed across the room and flung myself at my love as he rose, wrapping my arms around him.

“Don’t do it, James, don’t do it!” I whispered in his ear, imploring him not to endanger himself for my sake. His muscles were tense and I knew he wanted to attack, but I held him fast in my arms.

“How sweet,” commented Evans and I tightened my grip. “But the show is over. Cover yourselves up, lovebirds.”

Once I was sure James would not attack, I released him. He stalked across the floor, but not to his own clothes: He remained naked as he gathered up my own garments, handing them to me respectfully as I dressed, doing his best to shield my naked body with his own. Only when I was fully clothed did he snatch up his own pants and begin to dress.

Evans sent most of the men from the room, keeping only the two largest to stand by the door. James had just finished doing up the last button on his shirt when Hammond burst in, followed by the sinister Giles. He was bubbling with excitement, rapidly telling as about all the Ferraris he’d seen and how he’d been allowed to sit in the driver’s seat of the Daytona Spyder. Our interest in his adventures was slightly forced, but I didn’t want him to be affected by what had taken place in this room so we feigned enthusiasm for his sake.

Evans was like a different man: Relaxed, friendly even, indulging Hammond with an almost genial air. It was confusing to me and somehow more frightening than if Evans had continued on in his demented way.

We were shown around Evans’s garage – a large spotless room that was more like a car showroom with tasteful lighting and shiny floors. Evans showed us the cars he would be auctioning and we dutifully admired them, all the time waiting for the moment we could escape that hellish place.

Finally, we made arrangements for the film crew to return – arrangements I swore I would never allow! – and were able to leave.

Hammond had quite forgotten his rough treatment at the beginning of the visit and was happy at the thought of coming back, but as soon as we were in the car and out of sight of the house, I put my foot down with a squeal of tyres and sped down the country lanes as if we were being chased by the dogs Evans had threatened us with.

James turned up the radio and we spoke with low voices.

“We are never going back there, Jeremy,” he hissed. “You have to tell Andy Wilman there is no way we are doing a piece on that… that lunatic!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him,” I agreed fervently. “We’ve seen the last of him, I assure you.”

I only I’d known how wrong I was.


	17. The Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dastardly DJ refuses to let Jezzer and Captain Slow out of his clutches

We tried to put the incident at Evans’s mansion behind us. I informed Andy Wilman point blank that we would not be doing a piece on Chris Evans, now or ever. To my surprise, Andy Wilman regarded me with keen intelligence and did not protest.

“Something happened out there, didn’t it?” he asked with astonishing insight. “Chris has finally lost it, hasn’t he?”

Shocked, I tried to deny it, but he grabbed my arm and looked me straight in the eye.

“Does it need….dealing with?” he asked delicately. I knew he was referring to the way we had “dealt with” the original Stig.

Tempting though it was to plot revenge, Evans was far too high profile to murder and the less Andy Wilman knew about what had occurred at Evans’s home the better. I shook my head and Andy Wilman subsided.

“Very well, Jeremy,” he said. “Let me know if you change your mind. I’m sure we can work something out. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I sent you out there. I thought you’d be safe.”

I couldn’t blame Andy Wilman for what had happened. Nobody could have predicted that. I left his office with the assurance that I would let him know if proceedings needed to be moved forward.

 

Hammond kept asking when we would be going back. I kept putting him off, but eventually I had to tell him that we would never be returning. It was hard for him to understand why, as James and I had told him nothing about the episode there and for a time he was sulky and difficult because Evans had told him he’d be allowed to actually drive one of the Ferraris next time. He was so eager to drive it I had to secure a solemn vow from him that he would never instigate contact with Evans, or go back there by himself under any circumstances.

Meanwhile, the whole drama seemed to have brought James and I closer together, if such a thing were possible. Foremost in my mind were the heroics he’d demonstrated, the concern for Hammond and myself, the chivalry and courage he’d shown in trying to defend my honour. For days afterwards he was withdrawn and miserable at the knowledge he’d been unable to protect me, but I let him know over and over that he wasn’t to blame and how much I appreciated what he had done. What was more fun, though, were the myriad ways he endeavoured to make it up to me……

 

Two weeks passed, weeks in which we lived and laughed and loved and filmed and drove. Evans was largely forgotten in the hustle and bustle of day to day life, but at the end of the fortnight I received a phone call that changed everything.

 

It was three in the morning. James and I had gone to his tiny flat, his refuge, and we had fallen asleep after blissful lovemaking. His arms were wrapped tightly around me and when the phone rang I had a difficult job extricating myself to answer it. The movement as well as the ringtone woke him, and he sat up in bed as I fumbled for my phone in the dark.

Getting a phone call at that time in the morning is always worrying and the news one receives in these circumstances is rarely positive. I glanced at the phone’s screen with bleary eyes.  _ Private _ .

“Who is it?” asked James.

“I don’t know,” I confessed, feeling a deep sense of trepidation as I finally silenced the ringing and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

There was a long pause at the other end, filled only by quick, excited breathing.

“Who is this?” I demanded.

“Check your emails, Jeremy,” said a voice and as it crawled from the speaker I shuddered as I recognised it.

“Evans?” I guessed in a querulous voice. I heard James gasp next to me and his hand immediately moved to grab the phone, but it was too late: Evans had gone.

“Hello? Hello!” snapped James. I took the phone back from his unresisting hand.

“He’s gone,” I said dully. “He told me to check my emails.”

“I suppose you’d better, then…..” said James uncertainly.

It was the last thing I wanted to do. With a sickening feeling of foreboding, I opened the email app on my phone.

There was an untitled email with a jpeg attachment. James leaned over my shoulder as I tapped the screen. Moments later I had dropped the phone at the image displayed.

It was a picture taken of the room in Evans’s house, but from high up and from an obviously hidden camera. In the top left corner, a pile of suited men could be seen from which protruded James’s face, twisted in pain and anger. This was upsetting enough, but centre frame was the most shocking image.

I had never seen myself from that angle before, but there was no mistaking the tall, bent over form with its buttocks displayed obligingly open for the camera. The pose had made such an impression I had no doubt that it was me. However, it was only now that I saw what had been going on behind me.

Evans stood there, close but not obscuring the view from the camera he knew was there, turned slightly sideways to ensure the camera could see what he was doing. His jeans were around his knees, his pants pulled down around his thighs and there was some motion blur in the photo around his groin as the camera had caught him in the act of vigorously masturbating. I did not want to look closer, but I did and saw the unmistakable silvery arc of ejaculate spurting towards my rear end, captured on film with nauseating clarity.

“What in God’s name….?” James picked up my phone, his hand shaking with rage. “The dirty, vile, unspeakable…….”

He got no further as the phone rang again. He didn’t give it back to me, but hit the answer button with a savage thumb, putting it on speaker at the same time.

“Evans!” he roared.

Sibilant giggles wheezed from the speaker.

“Did you like it?” asked Evans. “It’s your best side, Jeremy!”

“You despicable beast!” James shook his fist at the phone as if longing to make contact with Evans’s face. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“I thought you’d like a little souvenir,” said Evans. “Apart from the little DNA sample I left on Jeremy, of course….” He sniggered again and I shuddered. I had burned the clothes I’d been wearing that day, bathed and showered many times since then, but I still felt the burn of his fluids hitting my skin.

“Anyway, I miss you…..” cooed Evans, his voice loathsome in its false sweetness. “I want you to visit again.”

“Not a chance!” James decreed. Evans laughed louder at this.

“Oh, I think you’ll come,” he drawled. “I have lots more photos from other angles. With Jeremy’s face and full…..glorious…nudity…..I’m sure the papers would love to see them.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” James was almost incoherent with rage. I had yet to speak. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to the man.

“Oh, I would, make no mistake about that. Anyway, I’ve already invited Hammond around. He’s here now. Say hello, Hammond.”

“Jeremy? James?” The small voice at the other end of the line sounded confused but not frightened, which meant he was unharmed. So far. I was grateful for that small mercy, but for how long would he remain unmolested?

“Hammond! I told you not to go there!” I scolded.

“But Uncle Chris said I could drive the Ferrari. And I did! But now he says I can’t go home till you get here. Are you coming? Because I’m tired.”

“Yes, we’re coming Hamster, don’t you worry,” I reassured him in a tone far more confident than I felt. Beside me, James was already hurrying into his jeans. “Let me talk to Ev… Uncle Chris.”

Evans came back on the line.

“I take it you’re on your way?” he said. “We’ll be waiting. Don’t be too long, though, or I might get bored and use Hammond to entertain me……”

“Don’t you hurt him, you animal!” yelled James. Evans laughed in response.

“Get a move on and I won’t have to!” he chuckled. “I’ve calculated your route. I know you’re in Leeds. Don’t ask me how I know. It should take you about 3 and a half hours to get here – probably less knowing the speed Jeremy drives at. He’s a fast one, isn’t he?”

I gagged at the insinuation.

“I’ll give you a maximum of four hours, though. I’m feeling generous. In fact, so generous I’ll have a Full English waiting for you when you get here. We can enjoy a lovely breakfast together before the festivities begin….”

 

Within 5 minutes we’d left the flat. James tried to take the car keys from me but I wouldn’t allow it.

“We both know I’m the better driver, James,” I said. “It’s common sense that I drive.”

James hesitated, but he saw I would not be swayed in this and headed for the passenger seat.

We didn’t have Satnav: I have an unerring sense of direction, almost like a homing pigeon and with my encyclopaedic knowledge of British roads I rarely, if ever, get lost. It took us a mere 3 hours to get to Ascot, driving at speeds not entirely legal for some of the journey. Fate smiled upon us and the roads remained clear.

Normally, I love driving but that morning I was too tense to enjoy the trip. I fretted about Hammond constantly and dreaded what would happen to us when we reached our destination. As we neared the town, James asked me to pull over. I was nearly frantic with worry but I couldn’t deny a request from my James. I parked with barely concealed impatience and turned to him expectantly.

“Jeremy,” he said, leaning forward and clasping my hands between his. “You don’t have to go there. You get out and find a hotel or something. I’ll go by myself.”

“Never!” I said tempestuously. “We go together or not at all.”

“But I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you!” brooded James. “After last time….I swore I’d never let anything like that happen again. I couldn’t bear it!”

“James, he wants us both there,” I reasoned, touching his treasured face in the darkened car. “If I don’t go, who knows what he’ll do to you and Hammond? I couldn’t live with myself if something dreadful happened to either of you because of my cowardice.”

He smiled bitterly.

“You? You’re no coward,” he declared. “You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met!”

“Only because of the courage I’ve borrowed from you, dearest,” I confessed. “Now let’s have no more talk of you going alone. I’m coming with you and that’s that.”

“What if I forbid you?” he queried. I laughed.

“We’re not in bed now, James. You can’t tell me what to do!”

I started the car again.

“Whatever happens, Jeremy, just remember how much I adore you,” implored James.

“If it’s half as much as I love you, it must be an awful lot,” I remarked and we set off towards our fate.

 

The dread grew as we neared the mansion. The gates were already open in expectation and we could see that the long driveway was lined intermittently with suited men, every fourth one holding a barely restrained attack dog on a lead. The first man stopped the car as we approached and peered inside. He wore dark glasses even in the dreary light of dawn. Seeing it was us he nodded in satisfaction and allowed us to proceed.

Now we were here, the urgency abated somewhat. We were well within the time limit he had set us and I was in no hurry to see what he had in store for us. I drove along the drive at a snail’s pace, listening to the gravel crunching beneath the wheels. Trees stood shadowy sentinel to either side. As we neared the front of the house the light grew brighter, but not from the rising sun: It appeared as if every light in the mansion blazed.

James made a strangled noise in his throat as we parked and, looking up, I saw why: Evans stood there, framed by the massive front door, Hammond at his side wearing a dog collar to which was clipped a stout chain lead. Evans’s grin was so wide I prayed his head would split apart and he had the same demented look in his eyes as previously.

James and I were out of the car in an instant, rushing towards the door. Hammond grinned when he saw us.

“Jeremy! James! We’re playing doggies! I’m the dog!” He stepped forward to greet us, the smile leaving his face abruptly to be replaced with a look of bewildered hurt as Evan’s pulled the lead taut.

“Heel, doggy,” said Evans, baring his teeth in a travesty of a smile.

“There’s no need to be rough with him,” protested James. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

“Yes, you are. You’re also good dogs,” said Evans agreeably. He reached to his belt, producing two more collars which he tossed to the gravel at our feet. “Put those on. You can play too.”

James looked as though he was about to give Evans a piece of his mind, but I stilled him with a hand on his arm.

“Do it, James,” I pleaded. “Let’s keep it a game for Hammond’s sake.”

Grimacing, James bent down and picked up the collars, handing one to me. Mine was pink, which only added to the humiliation.

Evans watched with barely contained delight as we fastened the buckles around our necks. No sooner had we done so, he swooped forward and clipped two more chains on our collars, adding us to his “pack”.

“There now, Hammond, I told you they’d join in,” he said. “We’re going to have great fun, aren’t we boys?”

This last was directed at us and James forced himself to nod sullenly. I tried to do the same but I’d inadvertently done my collar up too tight and it constricted my movement. I reached up to loosen it and was shocked when Evans slapped my hand away viciously.

“Dogs don’t undo their collars!” he screeched.

“But it’s too tight….” I objected.

“Your own fault. Leave it alone,” he commanded. “Now. Time for breakfast. Are you hungry?”

I was, but I didn’t think I would be able to digest a single morsel.

“I am!” piped up Hammond hopefully.

“Good, good. Let’s eat.”

Tugging our leads with an imperious twitch, Evans led us inside. As the door closed behind us, I wondered when we would see the outside world again.

 

A vast dining room was set up for the most comprehensive Full English I had ever seen, the different components set out on serving trays. Despite the sickening worry that had hold of my guts, I couldn’t stifle the growl of hunger emitted by my stomach at the sight of so many cholesterol-packed delicacies. To my surprise, Evans unclipped our leads as he beckoned a butler towards us. It was Giles, differently suited but just as menacing.

“Serve our guests, will you?” ordered Evans. I moved to sit down on one of the many seats around the expansive table, but was stopped by a sudden, startling blow to my rear end, the slapping noise echoing around the massive room.

“Doggies don’t sit at the table!” shouted Evans. “They eat on the floor from bowls. So get down there now!”

He pointed and I felt a twinge of mortification as I saw the bowls laid out ready. Evans had anticipated our cooperation to such an extent he’d had our names put on them.

Awkwardly, I got down on my hands and knees in front of the bowl marked “Jeremy”. James did the same in front of his own, wincing at the hard floor under his poor knees. Hammond didn’t join us and for a moment I wondered why until Evans saw my interest and stated:

“Hammond is a lap dog. He will be fed from my knee.”

I shuddered. Giles moved around, picking up trays and tongs and depositing various delicious looking titbits into our bowls, piling the food up in a mountain. James shook with anger next to me at the degradation, but I thought if this was the worst we had to endure at Evans’s hands we would be getting off lightly.

Finally, we were allowed to eat. I had lost my appetite by now but I dreaded to think what would happen if we refused our meal. My joints were already hurting, particularly my knees and shoulders, but I obligingly bent down and tried to choke down some food.

It was all perfectly cooked but may as well have been cardboard for all the enjoyment I got from it. I forced myself to chew and swallow mouthfuls of sausage, bacon, egg, beans, tomato, mushroom, fried bread, hash browns and black pudding. I ate as fast as I could, hurrying because whilst I was in this position not only did I feel vulnerable but I couldn’t see what Evans was doing to Hammond.

I finished, gasping, wiping bean juice and brown sauce from my chops and wishing for a cup of tea to wash the enormous meal down with. My stomach rolled and complained at its treatment but I’d grown used to ignoring it over the years. I willed it to keep the food down and knew it would grudgingly submit. I looked around to see what the others were doing.

James was still struggling with his own bowlful, but he’d made good headway. Hammond was perched on Evans’s lap, looking embarrassed but accepting the mouthfuls fed to him from a silver fork. Giles stood nearby – too close to Hammond for my comfort – watching the proceedings with a look on his face approaching euphoria. I remembered what Evans had said about Giles last time: about how he had a “thing” for Hammond and I resolved to do my very best not to let the man get his hands on our Hamster.

 

Having finished eating I was free to sit and take the strain off my joints. My knees were in agony and I rubbed them as stealthily as I could. I knew James must be in as much pain, if not more and my heart went out to him as he stoically carried on forcing food down.

I didn’t get the cup of tea I desired, but seeing I had finished Giles produced a bowl of water from which I eagerly lapped, ignoring the cackling from Evans at the spectacle. I was dangerously full now, the water sloshing around on top of the food I’d already crammed in and all I wanted to do now was have a nice long nap. I doubted Evans would allow this.

James finished, sitting back on his haunches and panting. His face was creased in discomfort and I covertly rubbed his arm in sympathy.

Evans finished feeding Hammond, wiping his face with a white napkin much to Hammond’s discomfiture. He appeared pleased with the way things had gone and I hoped this meant he would be lenient with us.

“What good dogs you all are!” he announced. “Now I think it’s time we went for a walk, don’t you?”

Nobody replied but it made no odds to Evans. He was already standing, preparing our leads. I sighed and got to my feet, helping James up.

 

Dawn had fully broken and the early morning sun shone bright. It felt odd to be walking out in the open in Evans’s immense grounds, in broad daylight, with collars and leads restraining us. We had all been obedient to his demands, but I could tell Hammond was getting tired by the way he stumbled. God knows how long the monstrous man had kept him awake!

“Hammond is tired, Evans,” I commented. “You should really let him sleep.”

The psychotic ginger rounded on me.

“You will call me ‘Master’ when you address me!” he snapped. “And nobody is sleeping until you’ve all done your business! I won’t have any of you leaving puddles on my expensive floors.”

It was the final ignominy. We all had to piss against a tree whilst Evans watched, dancing about and squawking laughter as he did so. Only then were we allowed to go back inside.

 

Evans showed us to a smaller room with large, soft cushions on the floor. He took off Hammond’s lead and allowed him to flop down on the nearest one. Poor Hamster was sleep almost instantly. Giles followed us in and stood in the corner of the room.

“We’re going to leave Richard to have a sleep,” said Evans. “Giles will keep an eye on him.”

He must have noticed the looks on our faces as he laughed.

“Don’t worry,” he told us. “As long as you both do as you’re told, you have my word that Giles won’t lay a finger – or anything else – on him. You won’t, will you Giles?”

Giles leered as us but shook his head.

“So you see, you’d better behave,” admonished Evans. “Because Giles here has an enormous cock and would likely split your little friend in half!” He laughed merrily as if this was the wittiest thing he’d ever said. Possibly it was: I’d heard his radio programme.

With that, Evans led us from the room by our leads, still laughing, and down a corridor to a windowless room. Strange shapes lurked in the darkness, casting shadows in the light coming from the doorway. Evans grinned at us, the insane Cheshire Cat grin we were becoming accustomed to, and flicked on the overhead lights.

“Gentlemen,” he announced. “It’s playtime.”


	18. "Fun" and "Games"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no safeword

The fluorescent light was harsh and bright and illuminated the entire room without mercy, ensuring that no implement or piece of apparatus was overlooked. James took one look at the room from the doorway and pushed me behind him.

“Jeremy is not going in there!” he announced firmly.

I wanted to demur, to proclaim my involvement no matter what, but the sight of so many sinister and unusual devices in the room had momentarily robbed me of my speech.

Evans laughed, loud and exaggerated, slapping his knee theatrically and spluttering.

“Oh, James!” he said once his fit of merriment had finally subsided, wiping his eyes. “It’s as though you have a choice!”

The grin vanished from his face in an instant as though turned off with a switch and his expression became severe.

“Get in here!” he snapped, jerking our leads so viciously we were both pulled forward off our feet.

I managed to get my hands out to break my fall, jarring my wrists as I did so. The floor was cold and hard and I groaned as the rest of my body came into sharp contact with it. As I struggled to get up, I became aware that James was already on his feet, his fists raised in a classic boxing pose.

“Come on then, you lout!” he snarled. “Let’s settle this like men!”

“Uh, uh, uh, James….” sighed Evans. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He indicated a monitor on the wall. The screen showed Hammond asleep on his cushion, Giles keeping silent watch over him. He appeared to be stroking his crotch. Evans toggled a switch on the wall and spoke into a microphone under the monitor.

“How are things going, Giles? Our guest settled in ok?”

Giles looked up at the camera, grinning and giving the thumbs up gesture.

James sagged in defeat, lowering his arms.

“Damn you, Evans,” he muttered, without spirit. “Why are you doing this to us?”

Evans walked up to him, pushing his face mere inches from James’s.

“You honestly have no idea?” he asked. “James, it’s all because of you! It’s all your fault!”

I gasped and Evans glanced at me as if I was of little importance. I’d managed to get to my feet and he tugged my lead.

“Come closer, Jeremy,” he instructed. “You really should hear this. After all, it concerns you now. You see, many years ago James and I had a little ‘fling’. Did you know that?”

I nodded cautiously.

“But did he tell you everything?” Evans raised his eyebrows. “Did he tell you how I was absolutely besotted with him and would have done anything for him?”

Now it was James’s turn to gasp. Evans turned on him.

“Don’t pretend this is a shock to you,” he spat. “You knew how I felt!”

“I had no idea!” retorted James. “You never said anything at the time.”

“Well, maybe I didn’t want to let on because I was afraid of being hurt! Did you consider that?” 

“Not really,” admitted James. “But you never gave me any indication that you considered our dalliance anything other than a bit of fun. You didn’t seem to take it seriously at all. In fact, I recall you said to me, and I quote: ‘James, I could leave you this moment without a second thought. I really couldn’t give a shit.’ We’d just finished having sex when you said that.”

Evans faltered, a look of uncertainty on his face.

“I didn’t say that…did I?” The leads drooped in his hand.

“You certainly did,” insisted James. “I was a little hurt at the time if I’m being honest.”

We watched as Evans seemed to grapple with an inner turmoil. Different emotions raced across his face. We were both unprepared when he suddenly pulled back his arm and slapped James violently across the cheek.

“You lie!” he screamed. James’s head rocked back, but he kept his feet and I saw flecks of spittle fly from Evans’s lips and spray into my love’s face.

James clutched his face, gritting his teeth against the pain, but I felt a surge of pride as I saw him gather his strength, lifting his chin rebelliously.

“Hit me all you like, Evans, but you can never alter the truth….” he intoned.

“Shut up! Shut up!” Evans raised his fist and waved it threateningly under James’s nose before seeming to take control of his wild rage. “You’ll pay for your lies, James May.”

“I’ll pay whatever penance necessary,” assured James quietly. “But I’ll pay it alone. This doesn’t need to involve Jeremy or Hammond.”

“Oh but it does……” Evans’s demeanour had changed once more: He was sly now, controlled. “I know how tough you are. I know you’d never submit if it was just you. So it stands to reason the only way to get at you is by hurting those precious to you.”

“But why now, after all this time?” asked James despairingly.

“I was waiting,” said Evans. “Waiting for you to love something enough that it would be an appropriate bargaining chip for me. It took you long enough: I was beginning to think you had no heart.”

Evans turned to me, smiling. He lifted his hand to my face and I cringed without meaning to, but he didn’t strike me. Instead he stroked my cheek with a fingertip, running it down my jaw and over my lips with sickening intimacy. I cowered away, repulsed by his touch, unable to stop myself. He laughed at my discomfort.

“But Chris - Hammond’s an innocent,” complained James. “Why involve him in all this?”

“Ah, but his innocence it what makes it all the more delicious!” remarked Evans, smiling again. “He’s not my taste, but as you’ve seen, Giles is very taken with him. And your fondness for him should ensure your obedience. Yes?”

I hung my head. I could think of no way out of our difficult situation.

“Yes,” I agreed. I don’t think I had ever heard my voice sound so small.

Evans looked at James expectantly. I could see James’s jaw flexing as he gritted his teeth angrily.

“Yes!” he blurted finally and my heart went out to him in his helplessness.

“Good.” Evans’s smile contained genuine happiness and I think this scared me more than anything else he had done so far.

He closed in on James, grasping his chin with his free hand, studying his face.

“Be amenable and no harm shall befall your little friend,” he whispered, not waiting for James’s agreement before kissing him forcefully.

It was a noisy, sloppy kiss, having no skill or tenderness. Evans ground his mouth assertively against James’s, parting his lips with a determined tongue and inserting its length. James gagged but remained still, even when Evans bit his lip ruthlessly on withdrawal. Blood trickled in a thin line down my darling’s chin, staining his day-old stubble.

Evans glanced at me and I blanched, much to his amusement.

“Don’t worry, Jeremy. It’s not your turn today. This time, you get to watch.”

 

I was tied. Helpless. I had been in in this position before but under much more pleasant circumstances and my James had been in control. Now, though, we were both under the authority of a volatile madman and I was frightened and sickened in equal measure.

Evans had secured me to a set of wall-bars that put me in mind of the PE apparatus in school. I was fastened naked in a starfish position, ankles and wrists tied tightly, unable to move. I was gagged with a red rubber ball attached to a black strap that buckled around my head, holding it in place.  I wasn’t blindfolded, however: Our tormentor wanted me to see what he was doing to James.

James was on his knees, an unfamiliar pose of subservience for him, his hands cuffed behind his back. He was naked but for the cuffs and the dog collar he still wore. Evans held the attached lead in one hand. The other grasped a fistful of James’s long hair, pinioning his head in position as he forced his ginger cock into my lover’s mouth.

I had felt that mouth around my own member. I knew its talent and flair, but Evans cared nothing for James’s skill in matters of fellatio: It was about dominance and submission, about his mastery over James, about James’s humiliation as his lover was forced to watch his mouth being roughly fucked.

I wept: I could not help it. James was outwardly impassive, allowing himself to be used brutally, but I knew inside he would be mortified. Thankfully, it did not take long for Evans to come, erupting in James’s mouth with gratuitous force, using his handful of hair to hold James’s head immobile as he discharged his full load into his throat.

James retched and spluttered, semen spurting from his nose and dribbling from his lips. I knew James had excellent control over his gag-reflexes and had always been more than able to swallow what had come out of my balls, so either Evans had come with such ferocity James was unable to cope with it or he had voluntarily allowed the reflex to be triggered to avoid ingesting Evans’s foul venom.

Whichever it was, Evans didn’t seem to care. He released his grip on James’s scalp and James sagged forward, only to make a choking noise as the collar around his neck pulled the lead taut.

Evans laughed, for a wonder sounding embarrassed.

“Oops! My mistake.” He dropped the lead and James coughed, vomiting up more spunk and spitting it onto the gleaming floor. I watched in perplexity as Evans reached down and rubbed James’s back soothingly. “You did well, James,” he remarked and I wondered bitterly if James was supposed to be grateful for the compliment. James expectorated another mouthful of slime, some of it inadvertently or deliberately landing on Evans’s shoe.

Evans took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it off without comment. With a final pat of James’s naked back, he walked over to where I was restrained and began to undo my bindings.

 

We were allowed to dress.

James could not meet my eye as he wiped Evans’s fluids from his chin. Evans whistled to himself as he fetched a mop and bucket from a cupboard and began cleaning up the mess on the floor. I edged closer to James, wanting to touch him, to reassure him of my continued affection. He flinched as my hand grasped his, but after a brief hesitation he squeezed my fingers in return.

Having finished his task, Evans put his cleaning equipment away.

“I expect you two are gasping for a cup of tea,” he declared jovially.

James and I glanced at each other. Evans’s disposition changed so quickly it was difficult to keep up with his current moods, nor to know when they would change again. I nodded warily, clutching James’s hand.

“Me too, let’s go and get one,” suggested Evans. He looked at the monitor on the wall. “We won’t wake Richard. He’s still out for the count!”

Cautiously, James and I finished dressing. Evans waited patiently and politely. He didn’t object when we removed our collars, merely beckoned us to follow him once we were done.

Hand in hand, we did as we were told. Evans seemed to be sane again, but we didn’t know how long this present humour would last and we were careful not to provoke him as he led us to the dining room where we had eaten breakfast.

The breakfast things had been cleared away, including both dog bowls. Everything looked so normal it was difficult to believe the lunacy that had gone before.

We didn’t sit at the huge table. Instead, Evans indicated that we were to sit at a smaller one by the French windows where a tea service had been set up. We obeyed, still guarded as he poured tea, chatting amicably. I pretended to listen as I sipped tea, but to this day I have no idea what he spoke of. My mind was racing, trying to work out what he had in store for us, wondering if we would ever get out of this alive.

James gulped his tea greedily, evidently eager to rid his mouth of Evans’s flavour. His cup was replenished without comment when he finished and he drank deeply of that too. I was on edge, my nerves frayed and ready to jump at the merest noise, but as we sat there I began to feel calmer – relaxed, even. James seemed to feel the same way, as I saw him stifle a yawn. It had been many hours since we’d been awoken by the phone call and it was only natural that our fatigue begin to show, but even as I rubbed my eyes I wondered how I could be thinking of sleep when our deranged captor sat so close by.

Evans stopped talking, observing us both closely, a beatific smile on his face.

“Ah, you’re tired,” he said, nodding sagely. “That will be the tranquilizers starting to work. Just a little something to help you sleep.”

Somewhere deep down inside my awareness, I felt alarm, but it seemed a long way away. James had already slumped over the table, snoring, the cup dangling in his fingers. As consciousness faded and blessed sleep flooded in, I was vaguely aware of Evans ringing his bell and soon after of many hands carrying me. Then there was nothing for a while.

 

When I awoke it was beginning to get dark. There was a moment of confusion as my waking mind tried to work out where I was before it all came flooding back in full technicolour horror.

Looking around, I saw I was in the room full of cushions. James was there, still asleep, slouched across the cushions in a wanton sprawl, but there was no sign of Hammond and the realisation engendered an immediate feeling of panic in me.

“James!” I hurled myself towards him, shaking his shoulder with more roughness than was necessary. He grumbled as he was roused, burying his face in the pillows and pleading for five more minutes.

Moments later, though, reality caught up with him too and he was on his feet in an instant.

“What time is it? Where’s Hammond? Are you okay?” He rattled off the questions in quick succession, not waiting for me to reply. His eyes darted around the room, taking in our surroundings.

“I don’t know, I don’t know and I’m fine.” I responded to all three questions at once as I got to my feet, stumbling slightly on the uneven, soft floor.

James was at my side immediately, catching my arms to steady me. His scrutiny turned from the room to my face, searching for injuries. I smiled weakly at him, still feeling woozy. Apparently satisfied I was unharmed, he swept me into an ardent clinch.

“Thank God you’re okay!” he said, tightening his arms around me. I sighed with pleasure and subsided into his embrace. Despite our circumstances, I felt safe in his encircling limbs and clung to him gratefully. He released me only long enough to shower my face with kisses before sweeping me up again.

“James,” I said finally. “What are we to do?”

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” he answered honestly. “Our fate depends on that crackpot!”

“We have to escape!” I sobbed. “And find poor Hammond! Oh, James, what if that vile man has him?”

“We just have to hope that Evans keeps his word,” said James grimly. “Now listen to me Jeremy: We are going to get through this, you hear me? It may mean having to do some unpleasant things, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, you have to trust me. Do you trust me, Jeremy?”

“Implicitly,” I told him, wiping tears from my lashes.

“Good boy,” said James, rewarding me with a smile and a kiss. “It’s imperative that you do. And remember, no matter what happens, I love you.”

“I love you too, James,” I said, meaning every syllable.

We kissed again, clutching each other in the dim room, drawing courage from each other while we could. Whatever lay ahead, I would have to have faith in my love.

A crackling noise startled us and we leapt apart.

“Ah, you’re awake!” said a tinny voice, and I realised it was Evans speaking over the intercom. We both looked up and saw the camera in the corner that had kept watch over Hammond earlier, its red light winking at us obscenely. “I imagine you’re wondering where Richard is. Never fear, he’s safe here with me. Say hello, Hammond!”

“Hello Hammond!” squeaked the familiar voice, before disintegrating into a fit of giggles at his own wit. Relief flooded through me at the sound of his happy voice, proof he remained unviolated.

Evans chuckled, an affable sound that did not fool me for a moment.

“The door’s not locked, boys. Come and join us. We’re in the garage.”

The intercom crackled off again. James took my hand, squeezing it as much to gain comfort himself as to reassure me. With a brave smile, he opened the door and we made our way to the garage.

 

Hammond was excited to see us, pointing out to us which cars he’d been allowed to sit in and which ones he’d been allowed to drive. His mouth was sticky with sugar, suggesting Evans had been plying him with sweets, which would explain his hyperactive behaviour. James only half listened, following Evans with his eyes as we walked amongst the cars.

Evans noticed his interest and smiled, a secretive expression that did not produce any feelings of confidence in me. As if in response to my disquiet, Giles appeared, looking bigger and uglier than ever. James stiffened at the sight of him: His presence suggested things were about to happen.

“Giles, take Mr Hammond away and give him some ice-cream, would you?” said Evans, not looking at his hired help but watching James closely.

“Ice cream! Yippee!” crowed Hammond and raced off ahead of the man to claim his prize. Giles followed at a more stately pace, respectfully closing the doors behind him.

Without saying a word, Evans reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone, thumbing the screen for a moment before holding it up to show us the name ready on speed-dial:  _ Giles _ .

“You know the score, boys. You play up, Giles plays. Are you going to be good?”

“You know we are,” said James sullenly.

Evans nodded, putting his phone down on the bonnet of a nearby Porsche.

“Good. Strip.”

We did as we were told. It was no use being coy, our clothes would come off one way or another, but I still died a little inside as I pulled down my pants. Evans watched, one hand going to the front of his jeans and caressing himself through his fly.

When we were both naked, Evans made us stand side by side.

“Now then you two,” he said briskly. “I’m going to fuck one of you while the other watches. I’m not sure which one yet. After that, you can both go.”

We regarded him with disbelief. Surely it wouldn’t be that easy to get out of his clutches?

“What, no ‘thank you’?” he asked incredulously. I could see his annoyance beginning to build and was scared of what might happen if it was unleashed.

“Thank you, Chris,” I said. “Thank you so much!”

Mollified, Evans subsided.

“At least someone has some manners,” he commented.

He was already undoing his jeans, stroking himself to full hardness. His erection pointed straight forward, wavering between James and I in its thatch of orange hair and I quenched a shudder, not wanting to pique him.

“Now then, which one shall it be….?” He mused. He bared his teeth in a grin that had no humour in it before beginning to sway his hips from side to side, his stiff penis wagging from side to side as he recited: “Eeny, meenie, minie, moe……”

His gaze was fully on me. He was mocking me: I’d been the centre of a huge scandal in May when it was claimed I’d used the old, forbidden version of the rhyme in an outtake and despite my professions of innocence I was widely not believed. I knew then which one he was going to choose. I smothered a sob as he continued, determined not to let him see me cry.

“Catch a  _ tiger _ by the toe….” he declaimed. He stopped moving. His hard-on pointed directly at me. “Jeremy!” he announced.

My limbs began to tremble, my knees weakening. I was resigned to my fate, prepared to do what was necessary to get us out of this situation, but my soul cried out at my abasement.

“No!” James stepped forward suddenly, placing himself in front of me. “Take me instead!”

Evans sneered at him.

“Trying to rescue your sweetheart?” he sniggered.

“No,” said James stoutly. “I  _ want  _ you to do it to me.”

“What?” Evans’s scepticism was plain on his face and I knew James would have a hard job convincing him. “Rubbish! You’re just trying to protect Jeremy! Get out of my way!”

Evans made as if to push James out of the way, but James shocked both of us when he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the other man, pressing his naked body against him.

Evans started to speak, but James kissed him, more roughly than he would have kissed me, grinding his groin against Evans’s erection. I’d been on the receiving end of James’s seduction often enough to know that he was formidable in his technique and that Evans didn’t stand a chance under the onslaught. Our captor moaned, clutching at James, powerless to resist.

After a few minutes, Evans pushed James away unceremoniously.

“All right, you win!” He licked his lips, covered in James’s saliva. “You’re the lucky one after all!”

Evans turned to me and I quailed beneath his gaze.

“Come with me the pair of you,” he said. “I’ve got something special in mind.”

He forced us to walk ahead of him, giving instructions as we went. I longed to hold James’s hand for solace but knew in his current mood Evans wouldn’t allow it.

The garage was huge, but Evans directed us to a small separate room holding but one car. I drew my breath in sharply when I saw it, hearing Evans snickering behind me and I knew once more that he had originally intended to choose me.

“Yes, Jeremy,” he said. “A Lexus LFA. Your favourite car ever on Top Gear.”

“How did you know?” I gulped.

“I have my ways,” he said casually. “Get in the driver’s seat.”

I did as he bade, settling myself awkwardly against the chilly leather. I couldn’t help but admire the car’s interior as I did so and covertly fondled the steering wheel.

I was brought back down to earth abruptly at the sudden loud, metallic sound of James hitting the bonnet chest first. Evans had him bent over the front of the car, his face mere inches from the windscreen in front of me. I put my hands to my mouth in horror at the realisation that it should have been me draped over the car, my shins grazing the front bumper as Evans prepared to enter me.

James’s eyes met mine and he attempted a plucky grin, but his mouth twisted in a grimace as Evans slapped his ass with too much force to be playful. I shut my eyes, not wanting to witness what lay ahead, but Evans saw my small rebellion and shouted at me.

“Eyes open, Jeremy! Hands on the steering wheel! Look at James’s face and remember: This was going to be you!”

 

It seemed to take an eternity. I followed orders to some extent, holding the steering wheel as if I was driving, but though I appeared to be staring straight at James I in fact focussed on a spot just above his shoulder. I felt every quake of the car, every rock on its wheels, heard every strangled breath and slap of flesh against flesh, flesh against metal. Tears ran from my eyes unchecked.

Whilst it continued I fantasized that I had the keys to the Lexus in my hand, the cold metal against my fingers as I slid the keys into the ignition, the engine roaring into life. In my fantasy James wasn’t in front of the car but Evans was, his eyes huge and terrified in the headlights as he realised what was going to happen. I imagined the sound of the engine revving as I put my foot on the accelerator, the tyres screeching as the car lurched forward, a metal monster bent on revenge on my behalf. The crunch as the front bumper hit him would be enormous, I hoped. I would hit him hard enough to send him flying but not so hard he would hit the bonnet and roll over – that way, I could drive over him as he lay on the ground, crushing him beneath the wheels, squashing the life from his body and making the world a better place……

The car stopped shaking. Evans panted from the exertion, his face shiny with sweat and madness and fell forward to flop onto James’s back. James’s eyes were shut, his mouth contorted in pain and disgust as he endured the monster’s touch a while longer. I stayed where I was, waiting for further instructions, my hands feeling as though they were glued to the steering wheel. When James finally opened his eyes he looked straight at me and I was pierced by my admiration for him all over again as he mouthed the words _ : Are you all right? _

I took one hand from the steering wheel to wipe the salt water from my cheeks. I was shaking, but I imagined to give him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. He smiled back, a painful gesture, but one that had all James’s valour and resilience. Evans may have bent his backbone to his will, but it was still there, as steadfast as ever. I could not help but commend his fortitude.

Evans pushed himself up, his hands leaving sweaty marks on the Lexus’s bonnet. James gritted his teeth as the tyrant withdrew.

Evans pulled up his jeans, zipping the fly.

“Okay, Jeremy, you can get out now,” he called pleasantly.

I flung the door open, sliding out of the car, my bare buttocks making a squeaking noise against the leather seat as I did so.

Evans barked laughter.

“That sounded like a fart!” he exclaimed gleefully.

I ignored him. My attention was entirely on James: He’d been having problems with his back recently and his position over the Lexus can’t have helped because he was having difficulty standing upright. I grabbed his arm to help, fighting my own revulsion as Evans went round to the other side to help. Confronted by the evidence of his cruelty I hated his benevolence!

James managed to stand, placing both hands in the small of his back and straightening it with a clicking noise that made me wince.

“There you go!” cried Evans charitably. “All better!” He patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. James glowered at him.

“You two had better get dressed if you’re going to be leaving,” remarked Evans. “Don’t want to get stopped driving through Berkshire naked! I’ll go and tell Hammond to get ready.”

With that he disappeared through the garage door that led into the house. James and I looked at each other for an instant before dashing with indecent haste to the other end of the garage where our clothes still lay. We dressed as quickly as possible, neither of us wanting Hammond to suspect anything was wrong. If Evans told the truth, our freedom was within arm’s reach and we didn’t want anything to jeopardise it.

Hammond joined us, stuffed full of ice cream and looking tired again. He clutched a new toy, a large model of a white Daytona Spyder.

“Are we going home now?” he yawned.

“That’s right,” said Evans cheerfully. “I’ve got a breakfast show to do in the morning and I’ve got to be up really early. But I’ll see you next weekend, ok?”

“Yaayy,” said Hammond with muted enthusiasm, rubbing his eyes.

Evans showed us to the door. Our car was still on the driveway, sitting there as though hell had not played itself out inside the house. Evans waved to us as we walked towards it, Giles at his side grinning sardonically. I felt like the character in Schindler’s List, walking away from Amon Goeth’s mansion, expecting to get shot in the back at any second.

We go into the car without incident. James flinched as he sat, grimacing with the affliction of his back passage. Hammond clambered into the back seat, cradling his new car with one hand as he buckled himself in with the other.

As I drove away, I hear Evans call after us:

“See you next weekend!”

I could hardly breathe as I reached the gate. It was closed. Two of Evans’s henchmen stood either side by the gate posts, one directly in front of the gates. He held up a hand, motioning us to stop. I felt James’s hand on my knee, squeezing tightly as I wound down the window.

“Hello?” I called. “Is there a problem?”

The man spoke into a tiny mic clipped to his lapel, his face expressionless. One finger was in his ear, evidently so he could hear his instructions better. 

“What’s going on?” demanded Hamster sleepily from the back seat.

“Nothing,” said James lightly, but his fingers bit into the muscle of my thigh like a vice.

The man at the gate nodded at something that was said into his earpiece, then moved to one side. The gates opened. I drove through.

We were free.


	19. Evans Almighty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy and James have escaped, but it will take great cunning to keep out of Chris Evans's clutches. Do they have what it takes...?
> 
> (Spoiler: No)

Once we were through the gates I drove randomly and with great haste, putting as much distance between ourselves and the mansion as possible. At any moment I expected to hear screeching tyres behind us and see approaching headlights in the rear-view mirror as Evans changed his mind.

We heard and saw neither, but still I could not relax. We had been through an horrific ordeal and I could not allow myself to believe it was over. I didn’t know where to go or what to do.

“We must go to the police,” I decided, almost to myself. James sat up, appalled at the idea.

“Are you mad?” he asked. “Can you imagine the field day the press would have?”

“But we can’t let him get away with this!” The thought of Evans calmly going back to work as though none of this had happened outraged me. “James, he violated you!”

James shrugged.

“I’ll live,” he stated. “And best of all, so will you and Hammond. It’s over. We endured it. Now let’s forget about it.”

“It will never be over as long as that brute is alive,” I said. “You heard him: ‘See you next weekend.’ He expects us to go back!”

“Well, we won’t go,” said James. “It’s that simple.”

“Somehow I doubt that!” I scoffed. “He’ll find a way, I know it!”

In the back seat Hammond had dozed off, but he stirred at the sound of our raised voices.

“Want a can of coke,” he demanded sleepily.

“Well, you can’t have one,” answered James. “It’s far too late and you’ve had enough sugar for one day.”

“Want a can of coke!” Hammond reiterated, more loudly.

“I said no!” snapped James.

“Uncle Chris would let me have one!” yelled Hammond.

“Jeremy, stop the car!” said James.

Spurred into action by his authoritative tone I did as I was told immediately, pulling over next to a small copse. James unbuckled his seatbelt and turned around in his seat awkwardly.

“Richard Mark Hammond, I’ve a good mind to give you a ruddy good hiding!” he threatened. “Do you realise the trouble you’ve caused?”

Hammond pouted, folding his arms across his chest.

“I want to go back to Uncle Chris,” he asserted. “He lets me do what I want!”

“You are never going back to that man, do you hear me? He’s an evil, perverted, abominable, dreadful man!”

Hammond sneered.

“You’re just jealous because he likes me more than you and Jeremy!” he said smugly. “He lets me drive his cars and sit on his lap and you have to eat out of dog bowls, ha ha!”

“Right, that’s it!”

Much to Hammond’s dismay, James got out of the car, throwing open the rear door and leaning in to undo Hammond’s belt.

“James, what are you doing?” I wailed.

“I’m going to teach this young man a lesson!” he averred, grabbing Hammond by his wrist and dragging him out of the car. He began to make his way to an overturned log, pulling the squealing youngster behind him. Hammond put up a struggle but he was no match for James’s righteous anger and before he knew it the younger man was bent over James’s knee, getting the spanking of his life.

I put my hands over my eyes as Hammond howled in pain and outrage. It was all too horrible! Yet I couldn’t help feeling that Hammond deserved it. He had gone back to visit Evans despite my explicit instructions and because of him James had been mouth- and ass-raped.

James berated Hammond as he pounded his bottom with the palm of his hand.

“You’ve been a very naughty boy!” he exclaimed. “You haven’t done as you’re told, you’ve been rude and ungrateful and you’ve generated no end of bother!”

“I’m telling Uncle Chris!” sobbed Hammond, wriggling and struggling to no avail.

“I’ve told you, you’re not to see that man again!” said James, continuing to spank.

I put my hands over my ears so I wouldn’t hear the distressing sounds, but I could still hear Hammond’s bawling and the meaty sound of James’s hand smacking against his buttocks.

Eventually, the squalling turned to miserable snivels and whimpered apologies and James decided that Hammond had been punished enough.

I opened my eyes. My two companions were illuminated by the full beam of the headlights, James’s face red with exertion and annoyance, Hammond’s red from crying and covered in snot.

“Now I don’t want to hear any more about Uncle Chris or his cars, do you understand?” James panted.

Hammond nodded peevishly, rubbing the seat of his jeans and they both got back in the car.

“James, was that really necessary?” I asked timidly, not wanting to rouse his ire against me but secretly thrilled with the idea of him giving me a spanking.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said James. “He just made me so cross! He’s going to be unbearable until all that sugar wears off.”

“Do you think he’s learned his lesson though?” I wrung my hands.

“Hopefully he’ll think twice about accepting invitations from Evans next time if he remembers the thrashing he got,” said James. “We’ll just have to keep an eye on him.”

I sighed and started the car up again.

Hammond’s voice drifted from the back seat.

“My bottom hurts,” he complained.

“You think  _ your _ bottom hurts?” muttered James ruefully. “You should try walking a mile in  _ my _ pants!”

“Oh, James!” I giggled.

We didn’t go to the police.

We dropped Hammond back home with his wife and kids, giving Mindy strict instructions that she wasn’t to allow Hammond anywhere near Chris Evans. Hammond was meek and agreeable after his spanking and sidled off to bed.

Unsure of where to go, we elected to check into a nearby inn for the night. James wanted to wash away all evidence of Evans’s occupancy of his body. I ran him a warm bath, knowing from experience that a hot one would sting.

As I helped him in, James hissed pained breath through clenched teeth.

“Damn, that’s sore!” he moaned.

I reflected that Evans must have used him very roughly to cause the pain he had: Despite James’s size, he had never once hurt me when we made love and Evans’s penis had been minuscule by comparison.

I shampooed James’s hair for him and scrubbed his back, wanting to do anything I could to ease his suffering and show him how grateful I was for his intervention.

“Can I get you anything, darling?” I asked.

James smiled at me tiredly.

“I’d love a beer,” he commented.

I raced off to get one from the minibar.

When I returned, James had got himself out of the bath and had wrapped a towel round his waist. Droplets of water clung to his chest hair and trickles ran down his back. I handed him his beer and moved in for a kiss.

He kissed me back, full of warm affection, but the kiss didn’t turn into anything more, as it often did. Instead, he drew away, squeezing my hand.

“I’m not feeling exactly amorous,” he told me. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not….you know….tonight.”

I had only wanted to erase the bitter taste left by Evans, but I understood his reluctance.

“It’s ok, James,” I told him. “Let’s just cuddle.”

He smiled.

“That sounds nice,” he said. So we went to bed.

 

I awoke suddenly. The room was pitch black, and I knew something was wrong: When we had fallen asleep there had been light shining under the door and the orange glow of streetlights had penetrated the curtains. Feeling panicky, I reached out to the other side of the bed, seeking James’s warmth and reassurance, but instead encountered only cold, bare space.

“James?” I whispered. The darkness in the room seemed to swallow my words and did nothing to quell my rising agitation. No reply came, but I suddenly had the distinct feeling that I was not alone. I gathered the bedcovers up around me, feeling vulnerable and exposed.

A noise came from nearby, the sound of a foot brushing a carpet in a stealthy step.

“James?” I asked again, hopefully.

That sound again! I knew it couldn’t be James: he wouldn’t frighten me so.

I jolted as the laughter began, right next to my ear, cold and crazed. Hands groped for me in the dark, finding my throat. I tried to scream but the grasping hands squeezed before I could begin, cutting off my air. I struggled, but to no avail. Then I heard his voice: Evans, his breath hot on my cheek.

“You’ll never be free of me Jeremy,” he chortled. “Never!”

 

I awoke for real, thrashing about under the covers. Light seeped under the bedroom door and shone through the curtains. James lay next to me, his hair dishevelled, his arms reaching for me.

“Sssh, Jeremy,” he urged. “It was just a bad dream.”

It was then I realised I’d been screaming in my sleep, a ragged, frightened sound. Dismayed, I dived into James’s embrace.

“Just a bad dream, Jeremy,” he repeated, rubbing my back soothingly. “You’re safe.”

But I wondered if I would ever feel safe again.

 

I suggested a day off work the next morning, but James was having none of it. He was a real trooper, insisting that a bumming wouldn’t stop him from filming.

A very chastened Hammond turned up at the studio. We had to have a meeting to discuss the filming for the day and I could tell that Andy Wilman was wondering why both James and Hammond required cushions to sit on. I tried to avoid him and thus any awkward questions but he cornered me as someone did the coffee round.

“Are the other two ok?” he asked. “Only I can’t help noticing they’re sitting very gingerly.”

I shuddered at the word ginger and its connotations.

“They’re fine,” I managed to reply. “James has haemorrhoids and Hammond hurt himself sliding down his stairs in a sleeping bag. I told him it would hurt but he wouldn’t listen.”

Andy Wilman chuckled.

“That’s all right then,” he remarked. “I thought the pair of them had suffered a vicious bumming or something!”

I laughed, but it was a forced merriment.

We sat down and proceeded with the meeting. I had a nasty moment when someone offered round biscuits and they turned out to be ginger nuts, but I recovered well. I was jumpy and on edge and couldn’t wait for filming to be over, but at the same time I was grateful for the distraction.

James was watching me the entire time and he was one person I couldn’t fool into thinking I was ok. Towards the end of the meeting he surprised me by suggesting another Special.

“So soon?” asked Andy Wilman, frowning. “You’ve not long been back from Burma!”

James shrugged.

“I’m getting the wanderlust again,” he said. “Could do with getting out of the country for a bit.”

I silently applauded his resourcefulness. A trip abroad would be just the ticket for putting Evans behind us – no pun intended.

Andy Wilman shrugged.

“I suppose that would be ok,” he pondered. “What does everyone else think?”

Of course everyone was in agreement. All that remained was for us to decide where we would go.

For the next few days we threw ourselves into filming, using it as an escape from bad memories. In between, James and I discussed possible destinations for the next special, but we couldn’t decide where to go. We tried asking Hammond but he kept saying he wanted to go to Jurassic Park, so he was no help.

In the meantime, James and I had still hadn’t made love. I didn’t want to rush him, but I was worried that the encounter with Evans had robbed him of his fervour for the act.

As the weekend approached, he became more and more on edge and though he had assured me that Evans’s threat carried no weight with him I knew it was preying on his mind. It was to this end that I suggested our highland retreat – and that we take Hammond with us to be certain he wouldn’t get into trouble in our absence.

James jumped at the chance to get away and we made preparations for our jaunt. We decided it was essential that Hammond not know where the Scottish cottage was, so that under pressure he would not be able to reveal its location to Evans. Although it seemed unethical, we dosed Hammond up with Tixylix part of the way through the journey and he fell asleep long before we reached Scotland, thus keeping our whereabouts secret.

At James’s insistence, we turned off our phones. If Evans couldn’t reach us, he couldn’t threaten us, he reasoned. I didn’t like being so cut off but I accepted his decision, confiscating Hammonds phone as well. I could tell Hammond wanted to kick up a fuss at his loss of his Twitter and Facebook privileges but since James had administered swift justice the weekend before he’d been respectful, polite and biddable. I didn’t like the idea of disciplining his misconduct so physically but I couldn’t deny the positive effect it had. Maybe corporal punishment was the way forward in keeping Hamster in line after all.

We spent the weekend relaxing, fishing for trout or salmon or whatever in the Loch nearby. Hammond was squeamish about handling the maggots but if one of us baited his hook for him he was happy to fish, spending hours sitting in the little boat on the loch’s calm surface.

We didn’t catch anything, but James sneaked out and bought a huge,  fresh trout which he smuggled onto Hammond’s hook so he wouldn’t be disappointed. It was worth the effort and purchase of scuba gear just to see the excitement on Hamster’s face when he winched the lake-monster from the water! Of course, it was also worth it so see James dressed in such a snug-fitting wetsuit……

 

Away from London, James visibly began to unwind. Our first night there, he instigated love-making of such fervour I was unable to speak for a long period afterwards, merely shed tears of blissful gratitude. He cradled me in his arms at the culmination and did not let go all night.

The pattern continued the rest of the weekend, James back to his old, randy self! Whilst Hammond played outside at the front of the cottage, we would keep an eye on him out of the kitchen window whilst James took me from behind over the large stone kitchen sink. When Hammond had his afternoon nap on the sofa, James and l would sneak out onto the nearby moors, put a thick blanket over the gorse to protect our most delicate parts and engage in vigorous copulation out under the elements, lending the experience a wild, untamed quality.

It was paradise, but it couldn’t last. We returned to our respective homes late Sunday evening, ready for our working week. Turning on our phones, we all found repeated missed calls from a private number that had to be Evans.

Hammond had spent such an enjoyable weekend away he didn’t kick up a fuss at missing the opportunity to spend time with “Uncle Chris”, for which I was grateful: Despite its effectiveness, I didn’t want to witness another spanking!

Before we parted ways, James elicited a promise from me that I wouldn’t answer any unknown phone calls. It was an easy promise to make, as I had no desire to hear that man’s voice crawling through the speaker next to my ear. We kissed and reluctantly separated.

At work, Andy Wilman noticed the change in our demeanour. Even the crew reacted favourably to our altered disposition. The working environment was relaxed and informal with plenty of joshing and fooling around. With the help of the team, James and I began to put our gruesome experience behind us.

I did get phone calls with unfamiliar numbers, as did James. I did as James had advised and ignored them, letting them ring through undisturbed until my voicemail picked them up. No voicemail messages were left, which made me think they were indeed Evans, as he wouldn’t want evidence of his insanity to be recorded.

 

On Friday we returned to Scotland, using the same method as before. Hammond was excited to be returning as he’d bought himself a new fishing hat.

We reached the cottage later than planned as filming had delayed us. We gave Hammond hot chocolate and put him straight to bed, sharing a bottle of wine before turning in ourselves. We engaged in euphoric congress before falling asleep in each other’s arms. As I drifted into sweet slumber, my body aching agreeably, I reflected that we had found the perfect retreat.

 

I awoke in the darkness, my heart pounding. My first instinct was to check on James and to my relief my questing hand encountered warm, slumbering flesh. My heart-rate slowed, reassured by his presence and I lay back down, wondering what had woken me in the first place. Had it been a noise? I wondered. Maybe a passing fox giving voice, or some water bird?

Relaxing against the softness of my pillows, I allowed my eyes to close, my breathing to settle. I thought about the following day and the amusements we’d planned. Just as consciousness began to fade, I heard an unfamiliar noise and its strangeness forced me to climb back out of drowsing, my dormant panic establishing itself once more. I sat up in bed, straining my hearing and heard a faint shuffling sound coming from the living room.

Was Hammond getting up to fetch himself a glass of water or go to the lavatory? I wondered. Reaching behind me, I grasped James’s shoulder and shook him gently.

“James!” I hissed. “Are you awake?”

“Awake?” came Evans’s voice from beside me in the bed. “I haven’t slept all week!”

I leapt from the bed, a scream catching in my throat. Behind me the bedroom door burst open, light flooding in to illuminate a naked Evans reclining in our bed, his face stretched with a ghastly grin. I opened my mouth to call for help, but something was put over my head, some dark fabric like a pillowcase, a hand covering my mouth. I thrashed my limbs, meaning to put up a fight but I was restrained within moments.

Part of me hoped, as I was carried from the room, that this was just another nightmare, but as I was bundled into the metallic acoustics of what felt like a van I wondered if this was the case, when would I wake up?


	20. Crime and Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are once more at the mercy of Chris Evans, and their trials have only just begun

The floor of the van was cold and hard and smelled of petrol. I was still naked, so there was no protection for my elbows and knees as I was dumped unceremoniously inside. My hands and feet were bound, the pillowcase stifling me as it was taped shut around my neck. I was not alone in the vehicle: Other muffled noises came to me, the drumming of heels, the grunting of a person gagged.

“James?” I queried, much of the volume getting swallowed up by the rough fabric. A sharp kick to my ribs answered me and I cried out in pain.

“Jeremy!” It was Hammond’s voice, confused and frightened. “What’s going on? Where is Uncle Chris taking us?”

“Quiet!” the voice was rough, accompanied by a slapping sound that made Hammond yelp.

“Don’t hurt him, damn you!” I shouted, turning my head blindly, trying to work out where to direct my pleas.

“Oh, he’s not hurt……yet,” growled the voice, followed by an earthy chuckle and I wondered if this was the voice of the terrible Giles.

As if in reply, some of the ambient light coming through the weave of the cloth over my face was blotted out and as I hadn’t heard the van door close I assumed someone was standing in the opening.

“Jeremy…..” said Evans’s voice, confirming my suspicions. “I suggest you keep quiet and do as you’re told. Giles is going to keep an eye on the three of you. Hammond isn’t tied or gagged like you and your lover, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t just as helpless…….”

Why wasn’t Hammond tied? I wondered. Had he betrayed us and our hideout to Evans and this was to be his reward – another weekend being spoiled by “Uncle Chris”? Given the likelihood that James and I were to suffer ferocious buggerings over the course of the following days, I vowed that if Hammond had done the deed I would see to it myself that he suffered the consequences, in the form of a pair of very sore buttocks!

As if reading my thoughts, Evans spoke again.

“Don’t blame Hammond. He has no idea.” I felt a hand caressing my bound ankle, not tenderly as James would have done, but greedily, as though the hand was merely confirming by touch that my bindings were real and incapacitating, a way of reaffirming his power over me. I shuddered in revulsion and used all my willpower not to snatch my feet back out of harm’s way. “Did you really think you could continue to evade me?” purred Evans, obviously revelling in his power. “It was only a matter of time before I tracked you down. You can’t elude Chris Evans.”

I felt despair like never before. Was the man omniscient? How had he found us and why were we worth the effort?

From the other end of the van there came a violent rumbling sound that echoed round the van’s interior and shook through the floor.

“Cut it out, May,” snarled the voice of Giles. There was a meaty thud and a groan as James was chastised.

“Keep quiet. Keep still,” instructed Evans. “If you do this, Giles won’t harm you.”

“Right,” agreed Giles, although I did not trust the man.

“Have a good journey, boys,” offered Evans with false cheer. “See you in Berkshire!”

The van doors slammed shut with sickening finality, the noise reverberating. Footsteps travelled around outside, engines started. The van began to move.

 

I knew the journey would be a long one as I had driven it many times before, but trapped there in the back of that hellish vehicle, naked and bound and frightened, it seemed to take twice as long.

We stopped periodically for toilet breaks – luckily, as James does have a weak bladder and Hammond’s was overactive when he was nervous. James and I were divested of our ankle bindings during these excursions, but we weren’t allowed to see, touch or talk to each other. Blind, I was led into what felt like wooded areas, twigs and stones pricking at my tender bare feet, my penis held by strange hands that seemed to take too much pleasure in their task. It was shaken far too vigorously afterwards in my opinion.

I was given water, fed to me in sips from a bottle under my head covering, but no food.

Giles was ever present in the back of the van – I grew accustomed to his scent of strong, cheap aftershave and the almost goatish odour of insanity. But he was not always alone. Sometimes another henchman joined us for and when this happened James and I were fondled and squeezed. It was a horrible feeling to be at the mercy of someone whose face you could not identify, not knowing where the next pinch was coming from. My penis was manipulated, my nipples tweaked, a sly finger inserted into my rectum. I twitched and squealed under the onslaught, which my tormentors found hilarious. At the next stop, the watch would change and another stranger would defile us.

Hammond either wept or slept for most of the journey. Doubtless he was more comfortable than either of us, but I heard sounds that made me think he wasn’t getting off lightly this time. Giles spoke to him in a low voice barely audible to us, his tone cajoling at times, threatening at others. He whimpered, refused, cried, submitted and cried some more.

Finally, the speed of the van changed. We progressed slowly along crunching gravel and I knew we had arrived. Even though I was sore and cramped from being bound on a hard floor for many hours and was weak from lack of food and sleep, I suddenly wished there were further miles to go.

The van came to a halt. Doors slammed, people spoke. The doors opened, cold air rushing in and bringing goosebumps to my skin. Hands grabbed my ankles and I was tugged roughly forward, pieces of grit slicing my flesh, friction burning my buttocks and back. For a second my legs hung in mid-air as hands fumbled at the ropes tying me, then I was levered into an upright position, my weakened legs barely able to support me.

Hands touched my shoulder, propelling and steering me. A sneaky one groped at an ass cheek, giving it a sharp pat to spur me on. I heard more commotion behind me and before long stumbling footsteps were making their painful way along the gravel in my wake. They soon caught up, hurried along by unkind hands slapping at bare flesh, and as they drew level with me a bare limb brushed against my own. I did not recoil from this contact: It was as familiar to me as my own body and even though it was far too brief the feel of James’s arm comforted me.

We were guided up steps. I stubbed my toe painfully but wasn’t allowed to stop. My feet slapped against cold marble and I knew we were in the vast entrance hall, the space feeling huge around me after such a long confinement. As we were turned, I guessed we were on our way to the dining room and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or to dread the prospect of food after last time.

After what seemed like an eternity we were brought to a halt. Someone fumbled at the tape around my neck and for the first time in 9 hours the hood was removed. Bright lights blinded me, making me squint my eyes against the pain. I gulped at the fresh air that cooled my sweaty skin, tasting like nectar after the stuffy interior of the pillow case.

I looked round cautiously, seeing James standing a few feet away, blinking in the same fashion. He had been gagged by something pushed into his mouth and taped in place and I winced in sympathy as they tore the tape away, leaving a red mark around his mouth.

James immediately started coughing, pushing the fabric from his mouth in a sodden mass, gasping and spluttering in great lungfuls of air.

As he recovered, Hammond was brought in. He was still wearing his Star Wars pyjamas and his face was streaked with grime through which tears had cut a clean path. Giles had a firm grip on his arm just above the elbow.

Evans walked in, looking refreshed and chipper and remarkably pleased with himself.

“Gentlemen!” he announced as he seated himself at the table. “I imagine you’re hungry and tired, yes?”

I nodded suspiciously.

“Well, come and sit down and have something to eat,” he exclaimed. “Giles, untie them! They can’t eat like that.”

Giles released Hammond, who immediately scurried away from him. He began to approach Evans, as if he hoped for rescue, but half way there he stopped, confused. It was finally beginning to occur to him that Evans was not his friend after all. Hammond hovered half way along the table, an equal distance between the men.

Our hands were freed. We massaged our wrists with stiff, uncooperative fingers. There were deep indentations where the ropes had been.

“Sit down,” said Evans, indicating two chairs near him. “The staff will fetch you some food.”

I didn’t want to sit so close to him but thought it best to select one of the chairs he had pointed out. My legs were still weak but I managed to limp over and pull one of the chairs out.

I stopped at the sight that greeted me: A large dildo, an unrealistic pink colour but anatomically correct to the last, uncircumcised detail had been stuck to the seat. It stood obscenely upright, its tip reflecting the light. I pulled out the chair next to it and sure enough it bore the same debauched detail. I looked up at Evans who was watching me expectantly and knew I had no choice.

James was at my side regarding the chairs with disbelief.

“I suppose it’s too much to expect some lubricant?” he asked, affronted.

Evans slapped his forehead.

“Oh! My apologies, gents, where are my manners? Giles, fetch the lube! I’m not a monster after all.”

I saw James’s mouth twitch as if to reply but thankfully he stayed silent.

Giles went over to the Georgian mahogany sideboard and opened a drawer, producing a large tub of something labelled  _ Booty Lube _ .

“Shall I do the honours, Sir?” he asked Evans.

“If you would, Giles,” replied his master.

I expected Giles to begin applying the lubricant to the monstrous reproduction cocks, but to my horror he produced a pair of latex gloves from the same drawer and began to pull them on in a business-like fashion.

“If the gentlemen would like to bend over?” he requested formally.

There was nothing I wanted to do less, but the thought of impaling myself on that immense phallus without some kind of unguent was even more alarming. With a sigh of resignation I assumed the position, resting my hands on my thighs just above my knees.

“Buttocks open, sir, if you’d be so kind?” Giles asked with a respectfulness that was ridiculous considering the circumstances.

Swallowing my shame and refusing to look at anyone I did as I was told, reaching around and spreading open my cheeks with my fingertips. My face burned with disgrace as the cool air hit the wrinkled brown star of my anus and I felt it twitch with self-consciousness.

I couldn’t help but jump and stagger forward as the cold gel-like substance was applied, a colossal amount of it by the feel. Giles’s rubber coated finger took its time, smearing the jelly around the hole before sliding inside. I felt my muscles clench at the intrusion and tried to force myself to relax as Giles slid his finger slowly in and out of me, circling the tip to spread its load.

Finally he finished and I was able to straighten up. I met Hammond’s gaze for the first time. His mouth was wide with shock, his face unusually pale and despite my own hardships I felt a grim sense of satisfaction at his horror: This was the first indication he’d had of what things were like for us whilst we were guests with his precious Uncle Chris.

Next to me, James was receiving the same treatment, his face contorted in indignation. Now I could see Giles’s face too as he worked and his lecherous smile belied his professional demeanour.

When James had been prepared Evans indicated the chairs again.

“Ladies first,” he said, looking straight at me.

There was no question of refusing. I brushed past James, squeezing his hand briefly on the way. The dildo-chair loomed, implacable and menacing. Gripping the edge of the chair I carefully positioned myself and began to sit.

My first try missed, the helmet stabbing me in my left buttock. I readjusted, sliding around until I felt the bell-end snug against my ringpiece. I did my best to relax as I sank down, accepting the rubber length into my rectum millimetre by millimetre. Its girth stretched me wide to the point of pain and I panted as it slid further inside.

Evans was leaning forward, his eyes alight with a baleful anticipation. His teeth were bared in something that could only just be described as a smile.

Finally it was done: My buttocks touched the seat, the entire length of the dildo inserted into my bowel. My sphincter was strained uncomfortably, but I felt an enormous sense of achievement. James, however, habitually being the “postman” in our relationship rather than the “letterbox”, wasn’t faring so well. He was having difficulty impaling himself on the gigantic organ and after several false starts was only a third of the way down.

“Would sir like some assistance?” asked Giles, standing behind James and resting his hands on his shoulders. Knowing the nature of the assistance he was offering James waved him away hurriedly.

“I can do it,” insisted James, grunting as another centimetre disappeared inside him.

“I’d hurry up if I were you,” advised Evans. “Your food is getting cold and Giles is getting impatient.”

With a yelp of pain, James sank down further, his eyes watering. He was nearly at the base but he wasn’t fast enough for Evans’s liking: Our manic ginger host nodded at Giles who immediately leaned down on James’s shoulders, forcing him all the way in seconds.

James cried out in agony, a reaction which caused the greatest amount of mirth in Evans. Oh, how I hated him then!

“Well done, James,” Evan cackled. “You took it like a man! Just one more little adjustment and we can begin our meal….”

I dreaded to think what the “adjustment” would be and my sphincter muscle tightened in anticipation. The abominable Giles approached me and I tried not to flinch as he moved my chair and faced me. He smirked sadistically at my reaction and got down on his knees.

I feared the worst as he leaned forward, his face practically in my lap, but he reached between my legs to a point under my seat and produced a strange device that dangled from a chain attached to the underside. It was a metal ring, half an inch thick, which Giles opened on a hinge. I naively wondered what it was for right up until the moment Giles grasped my cock and balls in one hand and snapped the ring shut behind my testicles with brutal efficiency. Before I could protest, he fitted a small padlock to the whole arrangement and locked it closed.

The chain that connected the cock ring to the chair was only a slender one, but it didn’t have to be thick: Secured in such a fashion Evans had ensured my utter immobility. I was pinioned onto a fake rubber penis and I could not get up without ripping off everything that made me a man.

In shock, I was still trying to come to terms with my unusual shackles as Giles repeated the process on James. Larger than I, James had a tighter squeeze to fit in the ring provided and he flinched as the hinge caught some of his scrotal skin.

“there you go, Giles!” exclaimed Evans. “I told you they would fit!”

“Indeed, Sir, it would appear you were right,” conceded Giles, getting to his feet and pushing our chairs snug up to the table.

Evans laughed merrily at the entertainment, then beckoned to Hammond.

“Come here, Richard,” he ordered. “you can sit on my knee.”

Hammond hesitated, his eyes seeking James and I for guidance: Having seen our mistreatment at the hands of his beloved Uncle Chris he was finally beginning to see the man’s true colours, but this was no time for him to reveal his defiant streak. The man was so unpredictable he might do anything to our little Hamster.

I saw a shadow cross Evans’s face, a dark expression that promised retribution if his will was not heeded and although I hated doing it, I nodded at Hammond, urging him to do as he was bade. Reluctantly, he slumped over to where Evans sat and perched himself on the fiend’s knee.

The shadow passed, the cloud moving from in front of the sun and Evans’s face returned to its former aspect of psychotic delight.

“Now isn’t this cosy?” he remarked. “I hope you gentlemen are hungry, we’ve got quite a spread for you!”

My body craved sustenance but my psyche revolted at the idea of eating under such circumstances. I felt queasy as the plates were brought in, despite the quality of the fare. Evans watched with a steely glint in his eye that told me I had better at least try to eat, so I picked up my fork and began to pick at what was in front of me.

Apprehension closed my throat but I forced myself to swallow, sipping water to ease the passage of each mouthful. James drank water greedily and I wondered if he had not been allowed to drink on the journey with his mouth gagged in such a way.

Hammond was being fractious, his normally fussy eating habits escalating a notch and he was refusing much of the food offered to him. I could tell Evans was getting impatient and dreaded what might occur if Hammond’s behaviour continued.

The atmosphere was edgy but somehow we finished most of our meal without incident. Hammond had finally settled on some fish fingers and nibbled on them without enthusiasm but it appeared to satisfy Evans.

As Giles cleared away the plates and poured port for us and squash for Hammond, Evans settled back to gloat.

“Well, you two certainly led me a merry dance this week,” he commented. “Aren’t you interested as to how I found you?”

“Not particularly,” responded James, sipping his port. Once more, I had to admire his backbone: He was chained to a chair by his balls, skewered on a gigantic dildo, yet he drank port as though at a dinner party, his legs crossed casually. All he needed was his pipe and the picture would be complete.

“I was most annoyed when you disappeared last weekend,” continued Evans as if James hadn’t spoken. “And you didn’t answer my calls. Most annoyed, I was.” I saw a muscle in his jaw twitch and could imagine how annoyed he’d been.

I tried to think of some excuse that he would accept, but my mind was a blank and I knew anyway that he would not fall for anything I could devise. There would be a price to pay for absconding and the debt was due.

“I intend to make up for lost time this weekend,” he informed us. “And to make sure the same thing doesn’t happen again. Tell me, just out of interest, whose idea was it to decamp to Scotland?”

I saw James opening his mouth to speak, but he had already suffered so much on my behalf I couldn’t allow it.

“It was my idea!” I announced.

“Really, Clarkson? Are you sure?” asked Evans. I sensed danger, but could not back down now.

“He’s lying!” interjected James. “It was me who suggested it!”

“Stop the heroics, James,” sighed Evans. “You can’t rescue him forever. Someone needs to be punished and it might as well be him. Giles – go and fetch what we need.”

Giles nodded and left the room.

My stomach turned, my bowels feeling suddenly loose around the phallus in my back passage.

“Dammit, Jeremy, couldn’t you have kept your mouth shut?” shouted James. I quailed beneath his displeasure, yet kept my chin high.

“I won’t allow you to suffer in my stead anymore,” I told him. “I can’t bear it!”

“Oh, how sweet,” simpered Evans. “Love’s sacrifice!”

“What are you going to do to Jeremy?” asked a small voice.

I had forgotten about Hammond, still perched on Evans’s knee.

“Evans, get Hammond out of here!” demanded James. “He doesn’t need to see this.”

“Oh, I think he does,” mused Evans. “I think Richard needs to know what happens to naughty boys who don’t do what Uncle Chris asks. He’s staying right here to watch….”

“You beast!” I sobbed, unable to countenance the idea of Hammond’s innocence slaughtered in such a way. Evans laughed.

“Don’t fret so, Jeremy. It will be a valuable lesson – for all of you!”

Giles walked back into the room, a large black leather holdall in his hand. He presented it to Evans with unnecessary flair.

“Ah! Splendid. Prepare Jeremy for punishment, would you?” asked Evans, shooing Hammond from his knee and ferreting around in the open bag with elation.

“Of course, sir.” Giles turned to me, his impassive face splitting into a lascivious grin at the sight of my obvious fear.

He began to make his way towards me, unhurried, his hands flexing and unflexing as he approached. I glanced past him, looking for some escape, impossible though it might seem, but saw only Evans producing a large, leather paddle from his bag………

 


	21. Booty and The Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy has to face the final indignity. But is it really the final one? Hahahaha no. Of course not.

The sight of the vicious looking implement in Evans’s hands made me quake with terror. I dislike pain in all its forms and the fact that I was going to voluntarily subject myself to it didn’t help. My only consolation was that if I was undergoing it, James did not have to.

I tried to be brave, but Giles’s palpable pleasure in my distress made it difficult. The man was a true sadist, revelling in my consternation and looking forward to the infliction of suffering.

He took his time releasing me from my testicle cuff, holding my genitalia in one hand whilst he undid the padlock with a small key. My penis seemed to wilt under his touch to a third its normal size and he laughed at its dwindling dimensions in a very hurtful manner.

Once my manhood was unconfined he did not let go, instead kneading me under the pretence of checking I wasn’t injured. I abhorred the touch of his rough, callused hands, willing Evans to look up from his bag of tricks and forbid his henchman from abusing me.

It was James who attempted my rescue, though. Unable to get up, fettered by his scrotum, he aimed a kick at my tormentor’s head, sadly missing by inches.

“Oi! You oaf! Unhand him!” he commanded. Giles merely sneered in reply, going so far as to rub my penis against his face defiantly.

Finally, though, Evans appeared to notice the slow speed of my release.

“Get a move on, Giles,” he said mildly. “We haven’t got all day!”

“Apologies, sir,” said Giles, favouring me with a wicked grin. He stood, still holding my limp member, stretching it to the point of pain before letting go. “Up you get then, Mr Clarkson.”

He offered me his hands to hold in assistance, but I refused them, preferring to rise under my own steam. Slowly I began to stand, the mighty dildo retreating from my rectum as gradually as it had been introduced. It wasn’t easy to withdraw, my insides accepting it as they had, but eventually with a ghastly slurping sound the length of it was out. My anus gaped in its absence feeling loose and soggy, but I could not help feeling proud at the relative ease with which I had received its insertion.

“Oh, well done, sir is a natural,” congratulated Giles, but I ignored him.

I stood proud, my 6ft 5 frame towering over the stockier man. I was scared but I was damned if I was going to show it.

“Where do you want him?” Giles’s question was aimed at Evans and our captor looked up briefly from his task.

“Hmmmm….I was going to suggest the occasional table, but it’s rather delicate and I fear it may not withstand our guest’s build….” he said, eyeing my paunch cruelly. I blushed, feeling my chagrin keenly. It was true I’d let myself go of late, but James’s had insisted he liked a man with a bit of meat on him. “It will have to be the sideboard.”

Giles nodded and turned to me, all pretence of courtesy abandoned. He was a predator now, bent on causing me pain and humiliation and bending me to his will. He grabbed my wrist in a vice-like grip, his fingers just as effective as the chrome-plated steel cockring had been. I was dragged with unnecessary roughness to the awaiting sideboard, beautiful in its mahogany splendour yet taking on a more ominous appearance now I knew what was intended for me.

I hadn’t meant to resist, but the force of Giles’s propulsion caused me to dig in my toes in a reflex action so I wouldn’t topple over. Taking this as a sign of mutiny Giles redoubled his efforts, his clutch biting into the soft flesh of my already sore wrist. Planting his feet, the man wrenched me bodily forwards and I staggered, eventually overbalancing and hitting the end of the sideboard with my midriff. It knocked the wind from me and I wheezed as I tried to catch my breath. Giles took advantage of my frailty, grabbing the back of my neck and forcing my upper body forward so it was flat on the sideboard’s surface. Whilst I huffed and puffed, he swiftly tied one of my wrists with a practiced move, using a length of black nylon rope which he then passed underneath the sideboard to protrude from the other side. He used the free end to tie my other wrist and before I knew it I was bound in a folded position, my buttocks presented perfectly for their beating.

I panicked then, realising it was too late to avoid my fate. I pulled on the ropes that constrained me but they held fast and I couldn’t even lift my shoulders from the wooden surface.

“His ankles too!” urged Evans, his attention finally on me. His eyes shone with callous gratification, enjoying my discomfort.

Giles nodded and set about tying my ankles to the spindled legs.

“That sideboard cost me four grand,” commented Evans. “You break those legs and I’ll break your ass!”

I shuddered at his crudeness but made a mental note not to pull too hard at my ankle bindings.

Once I was firmly affixed in place Giles stepped back to admire his handiwork, running a salacious hand along my flank.

“Do you want him blindfolded and gagged?” he inquired, his palm sneaking between my legs to cup my scrotum. I cried out as he squeezed me harshly.

“Just blindfolded, I want to hear his howls,” said Evans, standing. “And I think we should tie James May a bit more firmly,” he continued. “Once he sees what I’m doing to his precious Jeremy I doubt even that cockring will hold him!”

I craned my head over my shoulder to see James being tied, his arms bent painfully behind the chair’s back and his wrists fastened together.

“Gag him,” decided Evans. “It will be fun: He’ll see what’s happening to Jeremy but won’t be able to talk; Jeremy won’t be able to see, but he’ll be able to scream!”

Giles did as he was told, using the same red ball-gag I’d worn in Evans’s playroom whilst James was being mouth-raped. Once James was prepared, Giles approached me with a square of black silk he folded over itself and the last thing I saw before the blindfold was wrapped around my head was the unmistakable bulge of excitement in Evans’s trousers. The brute was going to enjoy my debasement.

 

Sightless and helpless, I felt more alone than I ever had. I could hear chair legs rattling against the marble floor and knew James was struggling, possibly injuring himself.

“Stop, James,” I beseeched. “You can’t prevent this, don’t harm yourself!”

Muffled noises followed my plea, James attempting to talk and I heard Evans and Giles’s voices joined in merriment.

“Wise words from Jeremy. Listen to your lover!” advised Evans.

I sobbed at the nearness of his voice, my bottom quivering in anticipation.

“Giles, keep an eye on Mr Hammond, would you?” instructed Evans.

“With pleasure,” grunted the goon and I heard his footsteps retreat.

“Why are you hurting Jeremy?” Hammond’s small voice piped up.

“Hush, little chicken,” soothed Giles and I heard a whimper that pierced my very soul.

“Don’t you mistreat him!” I could not bear to think of Giles laying his hands on the Hamster.

“Or you’ll do what?” Evans’s voice was behind me now. “You’re in no position to bargain, Jeremy…..”

I flinched as a hand touched me, gliding up my thigh and ending up settling on the curve of my buttock. He gave a squeeze, testing the flesh.

“Very nice,” he commented. “This is going to be a pleasure.”

 

The first stroke of the paddle took me so much my surprise I didn’t have time to react. The noise shocked me more than the sensation, echoing round the gigantic room like a car backfiring. Then the pain hit me and I drew in a deep breath to yell, but before I could give voice the paddle fell again, striking the other buttock with scientific accuracy.

I wailed, trying to arch my back, but I was too firmly tied. As I wiggled, I heard the paddle whoosh through the air a millisecond before it connected with the first buttock again.

I tried my best not to shout. I had fully intended not to give him the satisfaction, but the pain was so great I could not help myself. The awful unexpectedness, not knowing when the next blow was to come or which cheek it was to land on, made it all the worse and the fact I was unable to move my hands to rub the afflicted area left me no comfort.

By the fifth stroke I was sobbing in earnest. I had never known a thrashing could hurt so badly! My blindfold was soon soaked through as the blows continued, escalating in force.

I don’t know how long it went on. Suffice to say it seemed like an eternity. Periodically, Evans would stop, running his fingers over my sore flesh, testing my receptiveness to sensation. I was so far gone I did not – could not – resist. Then something started to happen – something that surprised and horrified me all at the same time: As my endorphins kicked in, the pain seemed to fade at each impact and instead a kind of arousal began. My psyche seemed to climb above the pain, witnessing it from a distance before I knew it I had begun to grow hard……

 

Giles spotted my stimulation before Evans did, being better placed to witness the activity of my penis. It stood hard against the end of the sideboard, pressing in a way that slammed it against the polished surface at each pound of the paddle.

“Sir, I think he’s enjoying it!” Giles said, pointing out my titillation to my immense abashment.

Evans stopped, his panting from exertion loud in the sudden silence. I gasped as he reached between my spread thighs, cradling my genitals in his hand, running his fingers up and down my shaft.

“Splendid….” His voice was guttural with lust and I could hear the jingling as his belt was unfastened. I moaned in misery, knowing the fate that was to befall me now.

“No…!” I pleaded weakly, pulling at my bonds once more, but Evans merely laughed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jeremy,” he sneered. “You’re giving me a clear invitation. Do you really expect me to be given a come-on like that and not respond?”

“But I wasn’t!” I protested, aware that my hard-on and the relaxed nature of my asshole belied my statement.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to give you what you want,” claimed Evans. “If only I’d known it would take a beating to bring you on heat! I’d have done it weeks ago….”

I felt his hands on my naked hips as something hot and clammy nudged between my parted buttocks. Off to one side, I could hear James giving vent to his displeasure the best he could with the gag in place. Overcome with mortification at my fate, I hung my head, turning my face from where I judged James would be.

Evans penetrated me easily: Not only was I greased and ready, he was only a fraction of James’s size. In truth he barely touched the sides, but my emotions made up for all the physical pain lacking. He fucked me with no finesse or style, merely humping away raggedly, all rhythm lost with his pelvis smacking against my bottom, his balls swinging and hitting my taint.

I submitted to my degradation because there was nothing else I could do: I had no choice in the matter. I would be fucked as Evans saw fit and it would be over only when he had finished. I could but pray it wouldn’t take long.

It shamed me beyond belief to be taken in such a manner, so roughly and casually, in front of the two people most dear to me, yet I cannot deny entirely that there was a modicum of pleasure in what was done to me. True, Evans was a detestable ogre I despised with a passion, but he had tapped into my nascent submissive desires in a way that was more luck than judgement. Had it been James doling out such treatment, the surface of the sideboard would have been slick with my emissions by now.

Finally, Evans finished, subjecting me to the final indignity of hot spunk pumped deep into my rectum before falling into a shuddering heap over my back. I wept quietly as I waited for my release. Evans’s face was wet with sweat that smeared over me as he wiped it against my skin.

“My God, James,” declared Evans finally, hoisting himself upright, his penis still firmly up my back passage. “I can see why you’ve been keeping him to yourself all this time! You were so tight and muscular you nearly ripped my foreskin, but Jeremy…….! He’s so receptive and soft…….”

Evans slid out of me, semen farting from my abused hole embarrassingly. His hand fondled my back with an affection I found more repellent than the violence of the rape.

Gently, he began to untie my ankles, rubbing my flesh to encourage the circulation, then did the same with my wrists. I straightened up sulkily, cowering away from his touch, but he was insistent, removing my blindfold and gazing into my eyes. There was a new light in his own eyes and he looked at me as if seeing me in a new way.

“Yesss…..” he hissed, lifting his hand to caress my cheek. “You’re my bitch from now on…..”

 

James and I had been deposited in the room full of cushions, Hammond bustled off elsewhere. Giles had locked the door on his way out, leaving us no escape in the windowless room and the CCTV recording our confinement.

Once alone, however, James and I fell into each other’s arms and I let loose my tears with a ferocity that surprised even me. James tried to soothe me the best he could but I was inconsolable.

“It’s okay Jeremy, don’t fret, it’s over now…..” James voice was a steady stream, hushing me and reassuring me as I clung to him. As my sobs dissipated he continued to cradle me, rocking me back and forth.

“It will never be over,” I said dully when I was finally able to speak. “It will play itself over and over in my head forever.”

“Well….you didn’t seem to mind it that much……” James suggested. “I mean, you did get rather hard……”

I sat up, horrified at his betrayal.

“You surely don’t think I wanted it?” I demanded, aghast.

James shrugged.

“It looked that way……What was I supposed to think when you got all stiff and let him shag you?” His face was red, but from embarrassment or annoyance I couldn’t tell.

“ _ Let _ him shag me?” I pushed James away from me angrily. “I was tied up and forced, James! I  _ let  _ him shag me in the same way you  _ gave _ him a blowjob!”

James hung his head.

“I’m sorry, Jeremy, I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just….confusing.”

“I had no control over the situation or my body,” I explained. “I did not want what happened. And if you think I did….well, I want nothing more to do with you!”

I turned my back to him petulantly, folding my arms.  _ How dare he? _ I fumed.

“Jeremy please, don’t!” James touched my shoulder, his hands tentative. “I love you! I just don’t understand yet. Give me time!”

I sighed. I couldn’t remain angry with James for long, and with all the sacrifices he’d made for me I felt like I had no right to anyway: He knew more than most what it meant to put oneself in the firing line for the sake of someone else.

“Just don’t judge me for something I couldn’t help, James, that’s all I ask,” I lamented.

“I’ll try, darling, I promise,” said James, gratefully wrapping his arms around me. “I’m so worried about you, though. Evans seems very taken with you.”

I shuddered at the memory of his prophesy:  _ You’re my bitch from now on. _ Did that mean I’d be perpetually at his mercy from here onwards? Would I never be free of his vile attentions?

James kissed the side of my head, holding me tighter. 

“I’ll do my best to distract him as much as possible,” he pledged. “I’m just concerned he won’t be satisfied with me anymore. I knew once he got a taste of you there’d be no going back.”

“He’ll never let us go now, you do realise that, don’t you?” I predicted miserably. “He won’t let us out of his clutches after we tried to escape him last time.”

“He’ll have to!” said James determinedly. “We’ll be missed. You and Hammond are married with kids……”

“Actually, Frances and I are getting divorced,” I interjected.

“Really? You and Francie divorcing? How come? You’ve been married for 21 years!” said James flabbergasted.

I shrugged. James and I rarely talked about my marriage.

“Well, we’ve grown apart really. Plus I went on holiday that time with Philippa and the newspapers took photos of us. Remember?”

“Oh, yes! That had slipped my mind. Anyway, Hammond’s married with kids, you’ve got people who’d miss you, I’ve got a girlfriend in Hammersmith…..”

“A girlfriend? Since when?” I asked incredulously.

“Since 2000. Sarah Frater. She’s a dance critic,” he mentioned casually.

“I do seem to recognise the name,” I mused. “Maybe I read it somewhere….”

“What I’m trying to say is,” James interrupted “That we have people who will miss us. Not to mention Andy and all the others at Top Gear.”

“Andy who?” I asked, unable to place the name.

“Andy Wilman,” said James, looking at me strangely.

“Oh, Andy  _ Wilman _ ! Great bloke,” I said. “What were you saying about Andy Wilman?”

“That he’ll notice we’re not there to film on Monday when we’re not there to film,” said James.

“Good point, but how will he know where to find us?” I asked, panic beginning to return.

“We’ll have to find a way of getting a message to him,” said James, deep in thought. “Next time Evans, uh,  _ has fun _ with one of us, the other must try and get to a phone.”

“That sounds awfully risky,” I said doubtfully. “What if we’re caught?”

“We can’t be,” said James firmly. “I fully intend to get all three of us out here alive!”

“Oh, James,” I sighed, falling into his embrace. “You’re my hero!”


	22. Weekend at Evans's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy is left alone to the untender mercies of their captor and dreadfulness ensues

Evans left us alone to rest for the night. Without watches, we had no idea what time it was and it was a struggle to work out even what day it was.

We worked out that we had been snatched in the early hours of Saturday morning and had travelled for possibly 9 hours, taking us into Saturday afternoon. By our reckoning, we were mere hours away from Sunday.

“He has to work early on Monday morning for his breakfast show,” said James sleepily as we dozed on and off on the piles of cushions. We were both weary, but sleep was difficult under such circumstances. “Maybe we’ll get a chance then…..”

 

I awoke to muted light shining into my eyes, blinding me momentarily. For the second morning in a row a hand was put over my mouth before I could cry out.

“Don’t make a sound,” whispered Giles, his ugly face close to mine. “If James wakes up he’ll put up a fight and then he’ll get hurt….”

Every instinct in me told me to struggle, but I had no doubt that Giles would be true to his word: As far as I could tell, the man had no morals and would think nothing of beating a naked man senseless. I didn’t want James to suffer on my account. Again.

I obeyed, keeping quiet and getting to my feet without protest. The way Giles looked at me made my nakedness feel dirty, without the natural purity I felt with James.

He leered at me as he indicated I should leave the room, his eyes crawling over me freely. I felt as though I would like to scrub everywhere his gaze touched.

I waited in the hall, glancing back over my shoulder to get one last look at James. In the split second before Giles closed and locked the door, my love was framed in the doorway perfectly, his limbs sprawled elegantly over the cushions, his enduring semi lolling thickly against his thigh, the encroaching daylight casting a honeyed glow over his skin. He slumbered peacefully, unaware of what was happening and I hated to leave him like this. I could only imagine how frantic he would be when he awoke and discovered I was missing.

“Mr Evans has requested the pleasure of your company,” said Giles, holding me firmly by the elbow. I shuddered at his oily touch.

“You can unhand me,” I told him. “I won’t try to run.”

“I know you won’t,” he said with dastardly smugness. “But it’s the only opportunity I get to touch you, isn’t it? Mr Evans has staked his claim on you now, nobody else is going to get a look-in.”

He leaned forward, his dribbling mouth mere millimetres from my ear.

“I’ll just have to hope he finally lets me have a go on Mr Hammond, won’t I?” he murmured, chuckling darkly. “Now there’s a little chicken I wouldn’t mind a taste of…….”

“You leave him alone, you oik!” I snarled, but Giles was completely unimpressed by my threatening tone and laughed as he slapped me on the rump.

I was still sore from the night before and the small force was enough to propel me forward. Once I’d got going, Giles kept me moving forward, taking me up a long flight of stairs that had me out of breath before I reached the top.

I had never been upstairs in the house before but I sensed where I was going without needing to be told: Evans’s evil seemed to emanate from behind a closed door, the pulsing psychotic centre of the house. Giles opened the door and ushered me inside the dimly lit room.

A huge four poster bed stood in the middle in which Evans reclined against large, soft pillows, his face a picture of libidinous complacency. To my disgust, the sheets around his groin were tented over a very obvious erection. Behind me, Giles had shut the door, cutting off my escape.

Evans patted the bed next to him.

“I’m having trouble sleeping, Jeremy,” he said. “Why don’t you join me?”

Despite the question mark at the end of the sentence, I knew it was an order, not a request and I reluctantly padded over to the side of the bed. Once there, repulsed at the blue-white hue of his naked torso and the sparse ginger hair that grew on his chest, I could not bring myself to climb up. He raised an eyebrow at my unwillingness.

“Need I remind you what will happen to your co-stars if you don’t comply?” he asked.

I shook my head: I knew all too well. I pulled back the sheets and got in next to him. I had barely settled before he pushed the covers down past his groin.

“Suck it,” he instructed brusquely.

I peered at the slender worm standing upright in its thatch of orange hair. My mouth felt too arid to possibly do what he ordered but I knew I had to try.

Leaning down I opened my mouth as wide as I could and lowered my head over his lap. His penis brushed against the roof of my mouth, scraping against the sandpaper dryness. I did my best to close my lips around him, gagging at his taste, but he allowed me only seconds of attempting to manoeuvre him into a workable position before thrusting deeply into my throat.

I retched in earnest now, his member too far in for comfort and as I tried to withdraw he placed a hand on the back of my head, forcing it down onto his rancid cock.

Fluid finally sprang into my mouth, but it had the bitter sting of bile and mixed with the salty tang of his pre-cum it made me feel even more ill. I spluttered around my mouthful of man-flesh, Evans’s laughter echoing in my ears. He grasped a fistful of my curls, bringing my head up.

“God, you need some training in the art of fellatio!” he exclaimed. “Hasn’t James educated you?”

I was unable to reply, my stomach heaving.

“Water…” I croaked eventually.

“Water? I’ll give you water!” he chortled, grabbing a full glass from his bedside table and dashing the contents into my face. I gasped, my breath taken away by the sudden coldness. “How about that? I don’t think that looks like enough…..”

The bed moved, the mattress rocking, but I was momentarily blinded and didn’t see what he was doing until it was too late.

More liquid splashed me, this almost scalding and as I wiped my eyes I saw with horror that he was standing above me, his penis aimed directly at my face, golden piss streaming out. I recoiled in repugnance but it was too late: Some of it dribbled into my open, shocked mouth and spattered onto my tongue.

With a cry of horror I put up my arms to ward off the gush of urine but he moved his prick to shower my chest.

“Is that enough?” he asked as the torrent trailed off. I burst into tears at my treatment but Evans remained unimpressed by my outburst. Bending down, he slapped me harshly across the face, shocking me out of my hysterics and sending droplets of pee flying across the pillows.

“Pull yourself together, man!” he commanded. “You get another go on my dick and this time, make it worth it!”

With that he knelt, grabbing the back of my head and pushing his stiffness in. Beads of piss still clung to his helmet and I was forced to suck those off too. I faltered as he began to thrust in and out of my mouth, managing to turn my head and direct most of his bell-end into my cheek so I didn’t gag again. I did my best to work my mouth on him, trying to time the movement of my head to coincide with the pumping of his buttocks, but it wasn’t easy. Being with James had turned me into a somewhat lazy lover: James took control and did most of the work, pleasuring me and expecting little effort in return. This strenuous service was more than I was used to and even though Evans was much smaller than James my jaw began to ache in short order.

Finally I felt his movements change, becoming more urgent as he neared climax. I braced myself for the eruption of sludge into my throat, knowing I wouldn’t be able to swallow his poison, but at the last second he pulled out of my mouth, leaving a string of slobber linking my lips and his glans. For an instant I was left staring down the black hole of his urethra before he disgorged the contents of his balls into my face.

My debasement was complete, my face covered with a mixture of piss, spunk, saliva, tears and snot. I accepted his discharge with as much stoicism as I could but inside I died a little more.

Evans flopped down on the bed next to me, his lips stretched with satisfaction.

“That was much better, Jeremy,” he congratulated. “You’re a good boy.”

I did not want his praise but I said nothing. He lay still for a while, recovering his breath, before seeming to notice the mess I was in.

“Oh dear, look at you, you mucky pup!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “I think you need a shower. Come on.”

He bounded out of bed, holding out his hand to me. I ignored the hand but climbed out after him, hoping my compliance would earn me some respite. He took my hand against my will and led me, unresisting, into the  _ en suite  _ bathroom. It was almost blindingly white, tiled and chromed and brightly lit. Evans opened the door to a spacious shower cubicle, turning on the stream and testing its temperature before beckoning me inside.

There followed a production of forced intimacy that I almost found more unpleasant than his many rapes. He got in the shower with me, standing under the warm water and grabbing a bottle of expensive-looking shower gel which he squirted into the palm of his hand and proceeded to lather me up. I hated the feel of his soapy fingers moving over my body, despised the false gentleness he used after defiling me in such a way. I forced myself to remain still as he slipped his fingers beneath my scrotum, soaped my pudenda and smoothed the bubbly gel over my buttocks.

Once I was clean enough for his liking, he handed the bottle to me and bade me repeat the process on him. I set to my task briskly, refusing to sensualise the procedure. If he noticed my disinclination to tend to him, he didn’t comment, merely directed me to the parts of his body he particularly wished me to minister to.

When he’d decided I’d finished he turned off the water and began to dry me off with a huge, soft towel. I stood, limp and resigned, unprotesting outwardly yet inwardly seething. He was very thorough, paying particular attention to my rudest parts, patting them dry with a tenderness I almost found laughable considering his treatment of me.

Afterwards, he made my lie face down on the bed whilst he applied a soothing cream to my afflicted buttocks. I could tell he expected me to be grateful for this succour but since he had been the one to injure me so in the first place I was unable to feel the appreciation he required.

All this I withstood for the sake of my own safety and that of my companions, but when Evans lay down in bed and insisted that I lay next to him, I very nearly balked. He wanted to lie as lovers do after congress, to hold me in his arms and fall asleep with the sound of my heartbeat loud in his ears as though I were a willing participant in this travesty. Yet what could I do? He may have been kinder after ejaculation and appeared to be caring but that did not mean his manner would not change if thwarted. I thought of James, in that room alone downstairs as I crawled in next to the devil that commanded my obedience. Had he woken yet and noticed my absence? I imagined him kicking down the door in blind rage, knocking out Giles with a single blow and bounding up the stairs three at a time to rescue me…….

Though determined not to sleep, the stress and constant terror had affected me and before I even realised it I had dozed off, held in the arms of the monster.

 

I awoke lying on my side, an arm strong about my waist, crossing my beer belly with difficulty. Evans was plastered to my back, his hard-on lying perfectly along the crease of my buttocks. I tried not to move so I wouldn’t betray my wakeful state, but the ogre had some kind of sixth sense.

“I know you’re awake, Jeremy,” he breathed and I knew in that one short statement that Evil Evans was back, bent on some cruel mischief.

“Where’s James?” I asked, wondering what fate had befallen my love. “Is he ok?”

Evans drew back, his hand connecting pointedly with my ass.

“How dare you?” he shrieked. “You lie here in my arms, blessed by my presence and ask me about the whereabouts of another man?”

He slapped me again, causing me to cry out.

“Stop! I’m sorry!” I apologised before I even realised I intended to and cringed under his onslaught. The arm that had been around my waist was now around my neck, locked frighteningly under my chin.

“You  _ are  _ sorry,” he agreed. “You’re the sorriest thing I ever fucked. But you’re lucky, because I’m very forgiving and I intend to fuck you again. Say ‘Thank you, Chris’.”

He released the pressure on my throat enough for me to speak.

“Thank you, Chris,” I whimpered, hating myself for my meekness but to terrified to do anything else but obey.

“Good. Now turn over and get your face in the pillow, you little bitch, so I can teach you what gratitude really is!”

I did as I was told, hurrying to follow orders for fear of arousing his wrath again. Lying on my belly, I propped myself on my elbows and prepared to be ass-raped again.

“I said get your face in the fucking pillow!” screamed Evans from a point somewhere behind me, pushing on the back of my head. The downy whiteness came up to meet me and I was forced to surrender, a brief moment of panic overtaking me at the smothering feeling until he moved his hand away and I was able to lift my face infinitesimally. My wrists were grabbed roughly, twisted behind my back and tied there with some kind of cloth. Not satisfied with my position, Evans instructed me to get onto my knees, my rump pushed into the air, my face back down in the pillow. I did my best, though it was difficult with my hands tied and Evans eventually intervened, grabbing my hips to bend me into the pose he wanted. I felt like a blow up doll as he manipulated me, knocking my knees apart and negotiating himself between my feet. I felt his hands on my buttocks, prying them asunder even further than my posture had done. I flinched in disgust as he hawked and spat a glob of saliva which landed directly on the winking brown eye of my exposed anus. I forced myself to try and relax, knowing it would be easier for me if I did, but every muscle in my body vibrated tensely. I was as highly strung as a bowstring and when Evans began to rub his cock-head over my asshole I found my muscles clenching despite my best intentions.

My anguish must have been all too apparent, but what did Evans care? He was bent only on having his way with me, pleasuring himself at any expense. He hesitated a moment, poised on the verge of impaling me, drinking in the sight of me tied, at his mercy. Only when he had taken full stock of my situation did he plunge forward, stabbing his sword into my tight scabbard.

I cried out at the intrusion: My back passage wasn’t as stretched or as lubricated as it had been the day before, but even so I was ashamed at the ease with which my insides accepted him. He groaned as he slid his length fully up, his coarse pubes tickling my still-reddened cheeks.

“That’s it, good boy,” he crooned as he began to rock his hips back and forth, his hands assailing my bottom as if he were kneading bread. “Take it, you little bitch, take that big dick, take it all up, you love it, don’t you?”

I could not reply even if I had been expected to, my face now firmly driven into the pillow with each thrust. He kept up the litany of abusive filth as he ploughed me, a constant stream of expletives that sought to degrade me even more. Again I was struck by the contrast between Evans and James. James had only ever spoken kindly to me during lovemaking, even those times when he too had me bound and helpless: His words had only ever been meant to reassure and titillate me, to express his gratitude and incorporate me fully in the act.

Evans’s words were weapons that wounded me whilst making him feel mightier. How I hated him!

I thought of James whilst Evans gratified himself. I wondered where Hammond was and what he was doing – or what was being done to him. I wondered if Andy Wilman had managed to secure Kiefer Sutherland as the guest for series 22 of Top Gear like he said he would. And I wondered if anyone would ever work out that the New Stig was in fact –

My thoughts were interrupted as Evans orgasmed. He rammed me forward on the bed, my face jammed into the pillow with such force that I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I began to panic, my nose and mouth stuffed with cotton and duck down. I thrashed, trying to lift my shoulders, but I was too off balance and with my hands tied I didn’t stand a chance. Little lights began to twinkle in my vision as my lungs were starved of oxygen and I felt what little strength I had begin to fade…..

Evans turned me over onto my side and I gulped air gratefully.

“Steady on, Jeremy,” cautioned Evans. “You couldn’t breathe, could you?”

Caring-Evans was back. I wanted to berate him for inadvertently nearly killing me but luckily I was beyond speaking for a moment. He patted my shoulder in a chummy fashion and began to untie my hands.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” confessed Evans. “How about some breakfast, eh?”

I wanted to ask if James would be at breakfast but I didn’t dare.

I watched without much interest as Evans dressed. It was too much to hope that I would be allowed some clothes to wear and as such a modicum of dignity. Naked, I was vulnerable and accessible and far less likely to stage a break-out.

We went downstairs, Evans insisting on holding my hand. Giles was in the dining room already, awaiting orders.

“Fetch Me Hammond and Mr May,” instructed Evans, indicating that I was to sit. I checked the seat of my chair cautiously: The dildo chair appeared to have been moved elsewhere. I supposed I should me grateful for small mercies but I it was difficult knowing that a new torture might be just around the corner.

I sat, head down, knees together, docile and agreeable. Beneath the surface, though, I was all a-tremble with excitement, knowing that James would be with me soon!

Nothing prepared me for his appearance, though.

I forgot my timid composure as James was led through the doorway.

“Oh my god! James!” I leapt to my feet. “What have they done to you!”

I hurled myself at him, trying to touch every part of him at once, horrified.

One of his eyes was blackened, his lips swollen and cut. Bruises were beginning to form, peppering his torso and his fists were pulped and bloody.

“Never mind me, you bloody idiot, are  _ you _ all right?” James chastised me with his typical selfless concern and I wanted to weep at the damage done to his precious skin.

“Oh, James, I’m fine,” I insisted, although that was not quite the truth.

“What has happened to Mr May?” inquired Evans, sounding interested but not overly perturbed.

“He got a bit frisky when he woke up and found Jeremy gone,” reported Giles. “Nearly bashed the bloody door off its hinges! Me and a couple of the boys had to calm him down.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” James assured me. “The wounds on my hands are from the thrashing I gave them!”

I kissed his knuckles, bathing his injuries with my tears. My James had the heart of a lion! As if sensing my thoughts he favoured me with a cheeky grin, full of his old spirit, shaking his mane of hair.

“Don’t fret, old boy! I’ll be right as rain before you know it. Now dry your eyes and let’s have breakfast.”

“An excellent suggestion,” opined Evans. “Sit, boys, sit. Where’s Mr Hammond?”

Giles hesitated and my heart lurched in my chest. James’s face began to look rather grim. He took my hand and held it tight.

“Giles?” said Evans sternly. “Answer me.”

Giles began to sweat, avoiding eye contact with his employer. Evans got to his feet.

“Sir, I have to apologise,” said Giles. “Mr Hammond has gone missing.”


	23. The Demon Barber of Berkshire

Evil Evans came back with a vengeance.

I’d begun to see the pattern in his behaviour, with his psychotic streak coming to the fore when he was sexually aroused or frustrated and his kinder personae coming through when he was sated. But with Hammond missing it appeared all bets were off.

Evans stared at his henchman for a full 30 seconds, disbelief clear in his eyes, before his rage kicked in – and though I was frightened, this time his ire wasn’t directed at myself or James. He picked up one of the heavy chairs set around the table, hefting it above his head before hurling it with sickening accuracy at Giles. The man dodged sideways at the last minute, the chair striking him on the shoulder with bone-crunching force, but he did not move from the spot where he stood. He gritted his teeth against the pain and remained stationary, apparently willing to bear the brunt of his master’s displeasure.

“What do you mean, he’s fucking missing?” shouted Evans, spit flying from his lips. “All you had to do was keep an eye on him and a man in a locked, windowless room!”

Evans strode over to the Georgian sideboard, ripping open one of the doors and producing a riding crop. With a vicious flourish, he set about his manservant, flagellating him about the back and shoulders as he screeched.

“Where has he gone? How did he escape? What have you done to find him?”

Giles did not reply, hunching his shoulders against the onslaught but accepting his flogging as part of his due. I abhorred the man, but I could not help admiring how impassive he was when subjected to his master’s wrath.

James and I meanwhile were standing huddled off to the side, clutching at each other, watching the spectacle. Hope had flared in my bosom, so keen it was almost painful. Hammond had escaped! Could it be true? How had he managed such a feat? Oh, my little Hamster could be tricky when he wished to!

Evans stopped his thrashing, bending over with his hands against his knees and panting. The riding crop he held was bent at an angle, testimony to the force he had used to berate his henchman. Straightening, he flung it to the floor where it skittered into a corner.

“How did this happen?” he demanded. His voice was calmer, his exasperation worked out of his system somewhat.

“It was while we were dealing with Mr May,” confessed Giles, his head hung with shame. “I don’t know how, though! We’ve searched the house and I have men with dogs searching the grounds. We’ll find him, I swear, sir!”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Evans paced up and down, running his hands through his receding hair. “If he’s on the grounds the dogs will find him. If he’s got past the walls, however……” He turned and faced Giles. “Keep me informed. My guests and I are going to have breakfast now.”

 

Guests! As if we were there by choice.

We took our seats. With Evans in such an unpredictable mood neither of us wanted to provoke his temper and we were model prisoners. Giles hobbled to the kitchens and came back accompanied with several other suited men, all of them laden with dishes and salvers. It was clear Giles was suffering from his injuries, but he made no complaint. As breakfast was served Evans stared into space, occasionally picking at his food, his expression troubled. The longer it took for news of Hammond’s absconsion to get back to him, the more likely it seemed Hammond’s getaway was permanent. Inwardly, I rejoiced at our little friend’s good fortune, though I wondered about the repercussions myself and James would suffer.

I was unable to eat much – just a few sausages, some rashers of bacon, black pudding and toast with a couple of eggs on top and some fried potatoes on the side. The possibility of Hammond’s freedom meant that there could be light at the end of our tunnel also and I could barely contain my excitement.

Evans threw his fork down onto his plate. The jangling of cutlery on crockery was shockingly loud in the lull.

“Stand up you two.”

I hadn’t expected the order and for a moment was too surprised to respond. Evans unfortunately took this as some kind of rebellion and swept his arm across the table top, crashing his plate to the floor where it shattered.

“I said stand up!” he yelled, his face reddening.

James had already pushed his chair from the table and was standing, his hand hooked beneath my elbow to urge me to join him. I got to my feet, attempting to stand on a pair of legs that had suddenly gone weak from fear.

His rage simmering beneath the surface, Evans stared at us both.

“Look at the pair of you,” he commented finally. “Scruffy bastards. I know you’re old, but don’t you look after yourselves?”

James and I looked at each other in perplexity. True, James was a little battered but he still looked noble and I myself had had a shower earlier on.

“Your pubes look like a pair of rhododendron bushes,” he continued. “I think you need a shave……”

 

Giles was dispatched to fetch the things needed. I was resigned to having my pubic hair shaved off and didn’t really think I would miss it. As far as Evans’s amusement went, I reflected that there were worse things he could do.

When Giles returned however I began to regret my complacency: I’d expected an electric razor, or maybe a Bic, but as Giles laid out the items he’d brought with all the seriousness of a surgeon laying out his instruments for surgery I quailed at the sight of the wicked looking straight razor set out on the black cloth, looking as if it were one of Sweeny Todd’s cast-offs.

I glanced over at James. His face had gone white at the thought of either Evans or Giles wielding that thing anywhere near his genitalia.

“I say, Evans, haven’t you got anything a little safer?” he asked.

I expected fury from Evans, but he smiled – and that was somehow worse. He looked at James but spoke to his hired help.

“Giles, go to the playroom and fetch a suitable restraint, will you? I can only shave one at a time and we don’t want the other one rattling about unchecked whilst I’m working and putting me off!”

Giles nodded and hurried off. Both James and I were unable to take our eyes off the cut-throat glinting on the table. The innocuous mother-of-pearl handle was beautiful and didn’t do justice to the danger of the instrument, but it was partially opened and the thin blade looked like it could cut the air into chunks.

“Don’t look so worried, boys!” Evans laughed, his good-humour returned. “I’ve had practice. I hardly ever cut anything anymore!”

As intended, his words did not reassure us. I tried to imagine life without my penis or testicles and it was a life I had no interest in living.

Giles returned, but his presence did not break any tension. He carried a large, odd-looking frame with him, fitting it through the doorway awkwardly. Evans saw what he’d brought and clapped his hands together joyfully.

“Splendid choice, Giles, splendid choice! Strap Mr May into it, there’s a good chap – I think I’ll shave Jeremy first!”

James regarded the frame doubtfully as Giles set it up. It didn’t look very sturdy and my mind boggled as to what it could used for.

It was a deceptively simple looking T-shaped frame, with a leather cuff at either end of the crossbar. Giles set the device up with the crossbar at the bottom so I knew that the restraints were for the ankles. The middle bar stood straight up at a right angle half way across the base, an adjustable pole running into it so it could be lengthened. Giles left only to return minutes later with the black bag from the day before and though I cringed at the memory of the thrashing I’d received, when he opened it he did not produce any kind of beating implement from it. Instead he produced a large red dildo which he proceeded to fit to the upright pole.

“It’s a simple device we like to call The Anal Impaler,” said Evans, keen to show off his toys as ever. “Simple, yet effective. Right Giles?”

Though he nodded, I saw a faint flush come to Giles’s cheeks as he worked and deduced that the manservant had been a guinea pig for the apparatus. It had doubtless been an unpleasant experience – which made me shudder at the thought of the brute strapping me to the contraption with first-hand knowledge of how uncomfortable it would be for me.

Satisfied with adjustments he had made, with lubricant applied to the phallus, Giles beckoned to James. James squeezed my hand reassuringly before walking over to accept his fate. What I witnessed then was a sight that has been burned into my memory in its barbarity. It was like a medieval instrument of torture, with James ending up looking like a victim of Vlad Dracul, impaled in his rear end by the dildo on the end of the pole, his ankles strapped wide apart at either end of the crossbar. It was indeed diabolical in its simplicity: James had to remain still to keep his balance or risk falling with a massive phallus wedged into his rectum. To add insult to injury, Evans decided that James needed his hands secured and with nothing to tie him to Giles utilised James’s own body as an accomplice. He used wide black straps fastened around James’s muscular thighs which in turn were attached to handcuffs, holding James’s arms motionless at his sides.

Evans regarded James with relish, circling him so he could look at him from all angles.

“Very nice,” he commented, trailing his hand over James’s naked body. He slapped a buttock, watching as James flinched on the dildo, causing it to intrude further into his anus. He laughed before turning his attention to me.

“Up on the table, Jeremy,” he commanded. I scurried to obey, climbing with difficulty onto the highly polished surface and lying on my back nervously. I tried to make myself comfortable but my composure was blown to pieces when Giles approached me with several lengths of rope. I sat up, pushing myself further along the table, away from him.

“Calm down, Jeremy,” urged Evans. “This is for your own good. We need to hold you still don’t so you don’t wriggle while I’m shaving. Be a good boy and let Giles tie you.”

Trembling, I lay back down, allowing Giles to loop the ropes around my angles and fasten them to the table legs, holding my legs open wide. He did the same to my wrists, spread-eagling me like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Evans stood at the end of the table, watching with barely concealed lust.

“Now you need to stay very still, Jeremy,” he instructed, picking up a bowl of shaving soap and an old fashioned badger-hair shaving brush. “I really would rather not cut anything off, believe me.”

I did as I was told, fearing for my genitals. The shaving brush tickled as he began to apply a liberal lathering of soap, covering my thatch quickly. He carefully circled the base of my penis, lifting it to coat my balls and moving my testicles aside to get to my perineum. Only when every inch of hair was covered did Evans pick up the razor.

I don’t think I have ever been more still in my life. The room was so quiet all that could be heard was the breathing of we four men gathered and the scraping noise of the razor as it denuded my pubic area. The perilously sharp edge glided around my most precious parts, taking my hair with it. Evans periodically rinsed the blade in a bowl of warm water and when he did so I took the opportunity to breathe: when the instrument was near my genitals, I held my breath and dared not stir.

It seemed to take an eternity, especially the process of shaving the wrinkled skin of my scrotum, but it seemed Evans’s boast of his expertise was sound. He drew no blood from me at all.

Finally, he used a warm damp cloth to wipe the entire area clean. I craned my neck to peer at the finished result, surprised to see how beautiful my private parts looked. Smooth and clean, they had an almost statuesque quality and it actually made my penis look larger.

“Well done, Jeremy,” said Evans, using a towel to dry me. “You stayed very still. But the real test is still to come.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, frowning in confusion.

“I haven’t done your crack yet!” he exclaimed. “Do you think I’d shave your crotch bald and leave all that hair sprouting from your ass? No! Giles, flip him over and tie him in a kneeling position.”

 

For the second time that morning I was on my knees with my rump in the air. My face was turned sideways, pressed against the table top. From the corner of my eye I could see James, still standing perched atop the dildo, his face full of empathy for me. I tried to smile, but it was a poor attempt. My arms were stretched out to the side uncomfortably and my knees complained at their treatment. My ankles were tied far apart once more, spreading my thighs wide, parting my buttocks for Evans’s ministrations. Once more I was prepared for my grooming, shaving soap brushed along my cheeks and between, stinging when it hit my maltreated asshole. Evans laughed at my squirming and applied yet more soap, taking care that some went up inside me.

Then came the razor again and I was still, the sound of my heart beat pounding loud in my ears. I kept my eyes on James, drawing courage from his stoicism and the compassion in his eyes. Evans put down the razor and I breathed a sigh of relief, but he tutted as he dabbed at the wrinkled bud of my asshole with the cloth.

“I can’t get those hairs,” he complained. “It’s a difficult surface to work with. Giles, do we have any tweezers?”

The manservant replied in the affirmative, his footsteps retreating. He returned minutes later and although I couldn’t see what he had brought it became obvious within seconds by the sharp pain emanating from my sensitive star. He plucked the remaining hairs one at a time, in no hurry to finish his task, until he appeared satisfied with the results.

“All done,” he told me, patting me on the bottom in a cheerful fashion. “Let him down, Giles.”

I was untied, groaning at the pain in my knees, but I was in full possession of my genitals and that was the main thing. James smiled at me proudly as I climbed down and it was almost with shyness that I let him see what had been done. He nodded approvingly.

“Now it’s James’s turn,” announced Evans, rubbing his hands together. I felt a twinge of apprehension at the thought of watching James being shaved. Would Evans take as much care with him as he had done with me?

James was released from his bondage and I took his place, the dildo sliding up into me with shameful ease, prepared as I had been with the shaving soap. I tried to settle as much as I could but the feeling of the cock stretching my sphincter was more distracting than I’d imagined and it was certainly not comfortable with my feet braced apart and cuffed. I struggled hard to keep my balance, forced to stand in a particular position to avoid being split apart. James had made it look so easy!

I watched as James was tied and soaped as I had been. I prayed that Evans would be as careful with my love’s wedding tackle! I could barely stand to look as Evans picked up the razor, testing its sharpness with his thumb. Apparently happy with its edge, he stood over James, regarding his target area, the razor poised in his hand. There was an expression on his face I didn’t like, one that looked far more menacing than the one he had worn whilst tending to me. I felt a dreadful foreboding as he reached down, grasping James’s fat cock with one hand and lifting it straight up, the razor held at an angle…….

Whatever Evans had planned, it never happened. Just as I was about to cry out to him to stop, for the love of god, one of his suited henchmen burst into the room, panting.

Evans’s face reddened with rage.

“What’s the meaning of this interruption?” he demanded, flinging down the razor.

“It’s Mr Hammond, sir,” gasped the man. “We’ve reason to believe he went over the wall…..”

“What?” Evans was aghast. “How do you know?”

The man approached Evans cautiously, holding something in his outstretched hand.

“We found this caught in the barbed wire on top of the west wall,” he said.

Evans took the scrap of cloth from the man’s hand. It looked like a small piece of striped cotton – exactly the same pattern as the pyjamas Hammond had been wearing when we were snatched from our holiday cottage.

Evans looked at the little swatch for a long time before letting it fall from his limp fingers. It fluttered down to the marble floor and lay there innocuously.

“How could this happen?” he whispered hoarsely. “How could a little chap like that scale such a high wall?”

“Actually, he can climb like a little monkey,” piped up James cheerfully from where he lay. “He loves climbing trees.”

“There was a tree near the spot we found the cloth,” confirmed the henchman.

“Damn it!” shrieked Evans, kicking a chair aside. “What are we going to do?”

“Looks like you’re finished,” said James. “You’d better just let us go, Evans and we’ll say no more about it.”

“Let you go? Never!” Evans flung himself into a seat, his hands over his face. He took several deep breaths, trying to control himself. “Giles, get my private jet ready. Me and the boys are going to take a little trip. In the meantime, I’m far too upset to shave James now. Jeremy – you do it!”

I gulped. Although I would much rather it was me shaved James, especially with Evans in his current mood, the responsibility of being the one to handle the fearsome razor was almost too much for me.

James was watching me closely and as ever seemed to read my thoughts exactly.

“It’s ok, Jeremy,” he said kindly. “I know you can do it. I believe in you.”

“But James, what if I cut you?” I babbled. “I don’t think I can do it!”

“Of course you can,” scoffed James. “I’d rather it was you, anyway.” He winked at me in that way of his, causing my heart to flutter.

“Very well – I’ll try,” I told him bravely.

“Attaboy!” he said. “I knew I could rely on you!”

Evans stomped over and untied me, retrieving the dildo from my asshole as casually and carelessly as if he was tidying up cues after a game of snooker. I walked over to James on unsteady legs, reflecting how different it was to be the one standing over him when he was bound and helpless. I smiled coyly at the thought, picking up the razor carefully. I rested my hand on his thigh as I surveyed the lathered area, wondering where to start. To my surprise, as I watched, James began to grow hard.

I gasped.

“Sorry, old boy,” he said, sounding quite abashed. “Purely physical reaction caused by your presence.”

I giggled and blushed. James had a way of making me feel sexy and desirable.

“Maybe it will be easier that way,” I pondered, watching as his penis went past half mast to fully erect. I grasped it gently, holding it out of the way. It was tempting to play with him as I did so – he certainly would have tormented me if our roles were reversed! – but I wasn’t sure how Evans would react. I glanced around at our captor. He was still sitting despondently in his chair, staring at the floor.

I leaned down, risking a quick kiss on the tip of James’s penis and making him groan.

“You little tease,” he whispered, grinning at me.

Evans looked up.

“Get a move on, Jeremy,” he snapped. I bent to my task.

It wasn’t as hard as I expected. I instinctively angled the blade to avoid slicing him and was particularly careful in all his nooks and crannies. I nicked him a couple of times, his blood mixing with the shaving foam and turning it pink, but he didn’t chastise me, instead keeping up a steady stream of encouraging words. By the time I’d finished his balls, Giles was back in the room.

“Everything’s ready, sir,” he told Evans.

“Very good.” Evans got to his feet and gave a cursory once over to James’s pubic area. “Good enough job. Anyway, we’re going to a little hiding place I have.” He sighed. “Giles will get you both some clothes to wear.”

Clothes! My heart leapt at the prospect of being covered again. I set about untying James.

 

Within half an hour James and I were dressed and ready. Giles and Evans escorted us to a limousine at the back of the building and we were bundled inside. I had hoped that we’d get to have some time alone together but my hopes were dashed when we were joined by our tormentor and his chief goon.

“You two keep quiet and behave,” ordered Evans. “I’m in no mood for prattle.” I noticed that he held a small whip in one of his hands and immediately resolved to do as he said.

Giles leaned over and rapped on the privacy divider behind my head, and the limo began to move. I covertly clutched at James’s hand, wondering what was going to happen to us now. Would we suffer for Hammond’s desertion, or would it benefit us?


	24. Camera Obscure

The limousine drove to a private airfield nearby where Evans’s plane was waiting, fuelled and ready. I did not know what would happen to us if we got on that plane. Would we ever see the Britain again?

“Where are you taking us?” I asked apprehensively. Evans glanced at me as if I were an annoying fly buzzing around his head and I quickly shut my mouth. The whip in his hand twitched as if he were considering hitting me with it.

James didn’t appear half so perturbed, but that was likely his interest in the plane itself. Since he’d acquired his light aircraft license 2006 he’d become a bit of an airplane nerd.

Evans was nervous and jumpy, looking around as if expecting paparazzi to jump out of bushes and start snapping photos.

“Get on the plane,” he ordered, his voice flat. I hesitated, clinging onto James’s arm. With a sudden flash of anger, Evans swept the whip towards me threateningly. “Get on the plane or so help me --!”

I jumped in fright and ran up the steps two at a time. James followed at a more sedate pace, as he rarely runs. The plane was small but luxurious, its interior largely white, which seemed to be Evans’s favourite colour. I gulped when I noticed a small bedroom towards the rear of the plane and wondered if Evans was intent on forcing one or both of us to join the Mile High Club.

As it was, James and I remained unmolested for the entirety of the short flight. Evans was silent and sullen, staring out of the window for most of the journey, lost in his twisted thoughts. I watched him from beneath lowered lashes, fearful of a change in mood that would spark violence, but part of me rejoiced at his misery nevertheless. With Hammond gone, things had changed and I only hoped it would be to our advantage.

 

We landed some unknowable time later. Neither James and I had been given watches with our clothes and there was no clock in the plane. Evans seemed intent on supplying us with as little information as possible to maintain his upper hand. I tentatively inquired as to where we were – were we still in England? – but he did not see fit to answer me. Instead, we were directed to another waiting limo and driven to another unknown location.

This turned out to be a lone warehouse situated near an unhelpfully vague, featureless field. There were no landmarks to give us any clues as to our whereabouts. The sight of the building struck me with horror, resembling as it did an abandoned abattoir and its remoteness made me wonder if it had been chosen specifically so that nobody was near enough to hear our screams…….

It was cold and bleak as we crossed to the heavily locked door and Giles let us in. fluorescent lights were turned on, illuminating a vast interior, sparsely furnished and painted white for the most part. Camera equipment and lights were set up, centred around a solitary chair in the middle of the floor. As Giles slammed the door shut behind us, Evans produced a roll of gaffer tape and fixed his gaze upon me.

Instinctively, James stepped in front of me.

“What are you going to do?” he demanded. Evans stared at him coldly.

“Just insurance,” he said. “Do as you’re told, both of you, and you may well get out of this unscathed.”

He nodded at Giles and suddenly the man had a firm grip on my arm, steering me towards the chair. With Evans’s other goons left behind in Berkshire and only the four of us present, James saw his opportunity and took it: He lunged at Giles, grabbing the man about the throat with clawed hands, knocking him sideways. Giles kept his feet, regaining his balance and grappling with James, releasing my arm. I looked around frantically for some weapon I could use to aid my rescuer, but by the time I had decided on a nearby light pole it was too late: James was twitching on the floor, victim to the cattle prod in Evans’s hand.

Evans stood over my prone darling, prodding him with his foot.

“Don’t try any more heroics, May,” he advised blandly. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

I started towards the recumbent form but Giles intercepted.

“Just go and sit in the chair before I decided to use this on you as well,” sighed Evans.

I had no desire to be shocked and after reassuring myself that James was going to be all right I made my way to the chair and sat down.

It was simple grey plastic with metal legs, like a stackable school chair. Evans lost no time in gaffer-taping me to it, my arms bent behind me, my legs taped to the chair legs. He plastered a strip of it over my mouth, took off his jacket, and began to take photos.

He followed a pattern, taking some photos then divesting me of an item of clothing before taking some more. Every stage of my undress was recorded from every angle before moving on to the next. I was then released from the chair and stood up so that Evans could catalogue the injuries to my buttocks, then forced to bend over whilst he photographed my anus. James was subjected to the same treatment once he had recovered from his electric shock and I shivered, naked, in the coldness of the warehouse.

Evans was different, somehow: emotionless, efficient. There was no discernible sentiment in him, just a straightforward business-like attitude that seemed to derive no pleasure from the poses he put us in. This was never more apparent when he put a new roll of film in the camera and off-handedly told James and I to have sex.

Whatever I had expected, it wasn’t that. Both James and I stared at him uncomprehendingly. He frowned.

“What’s so hard to understand?” he asked. “James, fuck your boyfriend for the camera. Jesus, we haven’t got all day!”

James looked at me. I looked at James. Although in reality it had been mere days since we had made love, it felt like longer with all that had occurred in between. I felt shy somehow, even though it was a body I knew and loved and as much as I enjoyed being with James it certainly wouldn’t feel natural doing it with an audience!

Sensing my turmoil, James smiled at me kindly. We both knew what needed to be done and whilst we were both reluctant, blessedly James took all the responsibility for the act, as was his way. He approached me with outstretched arms, taking me into his embrace gently and using the opportunity to whisper in my ear.

“Don’t be scared, Jeremy,” he told me, stroking my back with his clever fingers. “It’s only me and it will be over soon enough.”

He kissed me and at the touch of his lips I felt my reserve ebbing away. His mouth felt so familiar and safe I responded, exploring his depths with my own tongue, suddenly yearning for his touch.

Evans’s voice broke in, an unwelcome interruption.

“You don’t have to do foreplay!” he said impatiently, but he sounded more exasperated than angry. “Just stick your cock in him, man!”

James stopped kissing me long enough to favour Evans with a scornful glare.

“You can order me to do many things, Evans,” he announced nobly. “You may dictate  _ when _ I make love to my partner, but you will not influence  _ how _ I do so. I’ll do it my own way, or not at all!”

I cringed against James’s chest, expecting Evans’s wrath to descend upon us in a flurry of whipping and gaffer tape, but to my surprise he merely tutted and told us to get on with it.

James’s face was distinctly smug as he resumed his activities, touching me with his usual skill until I was moaning beneath his ministrations. Without being asked I eagerly got onto my knees and took him into my mouth, keen to obliterate the memory of Evans’s cock by replacing it with a more pleasant recollection. It was odd finding James so smooth, without the fragrant nest of pubes tickling my nose, but of all the things Evans had done to us shaving had been the least cruel. I decided I would continue to maintain my silky smooth crotch and would encourage James to do the same. It had a certain elegance to it…..

I could hear the clicking of the camera at work and the whirring of film winding on, but it seemed a long way away and of little importance. All that mattered was James and the pleasure we were both getting from the act.

With James hard in my mouth, he tapped my shoulder in a gesture that had long meant to us that I was to stop before he came and I reluctantly surrendered his member. It came away coated in my saliva and I was oddly proud of my achievement, for he was as hard as I had ever seen him. James kissed me again as I rose, tasting his own sex on my tongue, fondling my buttocks gently with due care for my bruising. Feeling James’s hands against my sore flesh was different to having Evans molest me and the sensitivity of the meat there actually heightened his touch until I was squirming and ready.

“Do him over the chair,” Evans instructed casually and  inwardly I cursed his involvement, his harsh tones intruding needlessly.

Calmly and looking for all the world like it was his own idea, James turned me with many caresses and directed me to the chair. I eyed it doubtfully, uncertain as to its suitability for the task, but with James tantalising me I found I no longer cared if the chair collapsed beneath our weight! I set my knees upon the seat, keen to feel James inside me, leaning forward over the flimsy plastic with no thought as to who was watching. James ran a hand down my spine, causing me to arch with pleasure, pushing out my rump to him.

Dimly in my peripheral vision I saw Evans move in with his camera to record the event and turned my head away, not wanting to be reminded of his abhorred presence. It was testament to James’s skill that I was so aroused under such incongruous circumstances. To distract me from the sounds of the camera shutter James leaned forward as he mounted me, whispering a soothing torrent of love-words in my ear, telling me how beautiful and special I was and how much he adored me. I melted beneath him, accepting every particle of him against me, inhaling his manly musk and soaking up his words with relish. I tried to murmur back as best I could but as always James’s attentions robbed me of most of my voice but for the most urgent of cries brought forth from me which rarely made any sense, disjointed exclamations of love and pleasure as they were.

How anyone witnessing our love could fail to be moved I did not know, but as we finished and the haze of ecstasy lifted from my vision I saw Evans still busy with his camera while Giles masturbated himself to a dogged climax. It made what had been a pure act seem dirty and I shut my eyes to them both while I recovered.

James and I kissed and cuddled afterwards as we always did but that was cut short by Evans’s harsh voice.

“Ok, very nice gents, that’ll do. Get dressed and get back on the plane.”

“Where are you taking us now?” I asked, feeling braver with James’s seed inside me as though his spirit were contained within the fluids.

To my surprise, Evans answered me.

“I’ve got a breakfast time radio show to do,” he said. “You two are coming with me. Make sure you look respectable because we’ll be doing some publicity shots.” His eyes glinted with craftiness. “By the time we’re through, everyone in Britain will be left in no doubt as to our firm friendship. They’ll see pictures of Chris Evans with the Top Gear lads and any claims you make about your treatment won’t be believed! And if that fails…..” He patted the camera in his hands. “I’m sure your viewers would love to see what else you’ve been getting up to.”

I cursed him privately but James was bolder.

“You’re a coward and an oik, Evans. You won’t get away with this!”

“We’ll see…..” remarked Evans, laughing. “I’m having far too much fun with you two to stop now. Especially you, Jeremy…..” He lifted his hand to touch my face but James slapped it away. Evans’s face twisted in a snarl of outrage and Giles moved towards us, having tucked his penis away, but Evans shook his head, subsiding with bad grace.

“We haven’t got time for lessons,” he said, looking at his watch. “That will have to wait.”

He regarded James critically before going to a locker in the corner and producing what looked like a cosmetic bag. He tossed it to James, who caught it on reflex.

“There’s a mirror and some stage make-up in there,” he said. “You can apply it on the plane. I don’t want anyone seeing your injuries.”

“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” said James and Evans puffed up at what he considered praise, but I knew James well enough to hear the amusement in his voice. That’s when I knew that Evans had  _ not _ thought of everything – but that James had thought of something……..

 

It was cold outside and I shivered. In a gesture of apparent concern, Evans told Giles to fetch a coat from the car and wrapped me in it with a great show of intimacy that made me feel nauseous. It was a thick brown leather jacket of the kind pilots wore during World War 2. The collar was huge and furred. Evans stroked it.

“I bought this especially for you, my little tart,” he crooned. “That collar is pure Masked Palm Civet. They’re not an endangered species, but they’re classed as Vulnerable. And just a little more endangered than they were since making that coat!” He laughed at the thought of me wearing small dead animals but in truth I wasn’t bothered. I’d once eaten seal flipper with grated puffin.

What bothered me more was when he ordered me to wear it in public as much as possible.

“I want you seen in it,” he said. “And if anyone asks you where you got it, you’re to tell the truth and say it was a gift from me. Understand?” He leaned in close, a grin on his face that I’d come to know meant some kind of cruel joke was afoot. “you don’t have to tell them that I came in the pockets before I gave it to you, though….Unless you want to….”

I shuddered and made a mental note not to put my hands in the pockets under any circumstances.

It had rapidly got dark and I was as confused about the time of day as if I’d been shopping in Ikea. Evans glanced at his watch again as he bundled us into the car.

“We’d better get a move on,” he commented and Giles nodded before passing the message onto the driver. There followed another journey, the darkened scenery speeding past us beyond the tinted windows, only to be hustled into the awaiting plane at the other end.

I did not realise how tired I was, but the flight lulled me to sleep and while I dozed Evans played another cruel trick, writing “My Bitch” on a piece of paper, with an arrow, and taking an unflattering photo of me with the paper next to my head. He told James to laugh or he would get another dose of the cattle prod.*

The rest of the morning passed in a flurry of activity. We were driven to the studio for Evans’s breakfast show, and although we did not participate Evans ensured we had our photo taken with him. In it, I was sitting wearily whilst the other two stood. James managed a passable attempt at a smile but I couldn’t muster up even a ghost of a similar expression, as Evans had his erection jammed firmly in my shoulder. His lust was reappearing as the day progressed, as he was apparently confident of his success and I was to bear the brunt of his libidinous behaviour.

“That’s it,” he hissed through his smile as we posed. “Take my dick for the camera you little bitch!”

I’d hoped he would release us once his show was over but he showed no signs of doing so. His self-possession was returning rapidly and I could tell he plotted dastardly deeds to perform on us once he got us back to his Berkshire mansion. My mind raced, every opportunity to escape being sought only to be thwarted by the presence of Giles and the barely concealed cattle prod he had in his jacket pocket. I began to grow agitated at the thought of being confined at Evans’s mercy again, especially as we were bundled once more into his car with his private driver and told we would be returning to Ascot.

I clutched at James’s hand, becoming more overwrought and fidgety than ever.

“Any news of Hammond?” I asked, my jittery voice betraying my nerves.

Evans grinned broadly, his teeth bared in a predatory fashion.

“None,” he replied with gusto, laughing at the disappointed look on my face. “Don’t look so downhearted, Jeremy,” he mocked. “It will give us more time to have fun!”

With that, Giles leaned forward, grabbing James’s arms and pulling them behind his back. My eyes widened with panic as Evans joined me on my seat, his hand going straight down the front of my jeans and his tongue going into my ear.

“I’m gonna fuck you in the limo, in the middle of all this traffic,” he drawled thickly, squeezing my penis too tight.

“No you bloody won’t!” roared James, attempting to twist himself away from Giles.

Giles fumbled in his pocket, producing the cattle prod and lifting it to a patch of bare flesh on James’s neck, above the collar of his jumper.

I screamed at the thought of James getting shocked again, but my bloodcurdling cries did not drown out the sound of Evans’s phone ringing.

Everything stopped, frozen into a tableau of chaos, before Evans withdrew his hand from my jeans and reached into his pocket to get his mobile. His face went pale as he looked at the screen to see who was calling. Slowly, his hand shaking noticeably, he raised the phone to his ear.

“Hello, Hammond….” he said.

  
  


* The later Tweet showed a photoshopped version of the photo with “Gay Cunt” written on the paper instead, but I’ve managed to get the original for the book.

 


	25. Emancipation

Giles lowered the cattle prod from where it was poised, ready to strike, and relaxed his grip on James’s arms. I half thought James would use the opportunity to retaliate but it turned out he was also far too interested in the phone call Evans had received to do anything vengeful.

Evans’s voice had turned to pure sugar as he spoke to our absent co-presenter.

“Are you all right, Richie?” he asked ingratiatingly. “What happened? Why did you run away?”

Hammond was speaking loudly and excitedly as he always did on the phone and I could hear his little voice squeaking away through the speaker even though I couldn’t hear what he said. Evens listened, looking anxious.

“Well, it may have looked like that, Richard, but honestly Jeremy and James are fine, we were only playing a game…..” Another pause. “I know his bottom  _ looked _ sore but……” He became more frantic. “Yes, I’ve told Giles off for what he did to James, it was very naughty to hit him like that…..”

He glanced at James who was smiling grimly, then his eyes widened as he glared at Giles.

“No, I didn’t know Giles did that to you. Yes, it  _ was _ very rude…..”

Now it was Giles’s turn to go pale, the cattle prod drooping in his hand. His eyes darted from side to side in small, trapped movements and he began to sweat. Evans gritted his teeth.

“But Richard, we’ve been having such fun Jeremy and James don’t want to leave! Can’t you tell Andy…..? I see. Yes. All right. No, don’t do that! I’ll drop them off at the studio! Please don’t do that, Richard!” Evans’s knuckles were white as he clutched the phone, his teeth grinding now in subdued rage. “Thank you, you’re a good boy. Goodbye, Richard.”

He hung up and sat there for a moment, staring at the iPhone in his hand before screaming with fury and hurling it at Giles with all his force.

“I told you to keep your hands off him!” he screamed, grabbing his manservant by the lapels and shaking him. “You’ve ruined everything with your greedy little cock!”

He slapped Giles around the face and pushed him backwards, his fists clenched. He transferred his attention to James and I and I fought the urge to cringe beneath his wrath.

“You’re needed at the Top Gear studios for filming,” he seethed. “I’ll be dropping you off there.”

My face must have lit up, for Evans regarded me with barely concealed ill-temper.

“You needn’t look so pleased, Jeremy. This isn’t over by a long shot! Don’t forget: I have the photos and more besides!”

James snorted, unimpressed by the ginger man’s threats. Evans snarled at him like a trapped animal, shaking one of his fists impotently.

“Face it, Evans: It’s over,” taunted James.

Evans laughed wildly.

“If you think that, you’re more of a fool than I first thought!” he told James. “I’ve got more tricks up my sleeve, you see if I don’t!”

“You can’t fight the BBC, Evans,” decreed James solemnly. “You should know that by now.”

At the mention of the BBC, Evans flinched, his shoulders hunching instinctively. A faint mewling sound came from his throat.

“Don’t invoke them,” he whined, looking around with paranoia. “They might hear!  _ They’re everywhere _ ….”

James looked at him with an almost pitying expression on his face. Still hunched over secretively, Evans leaned towards us, whispering.

“If you tell them what I did, I will kill everyone you’ve ever cared about.  I’ll even kill your cat, Fusker!” he hissed.

“You’re too late, he died back in 2011,” said James drily, but I saw the tear that came to his eye briefly as he thought of his late feline friend.

“He did? Shit! Well, I’ll kill your dog, Jeremy!”

“You leave Didier Dogba alone, you cad!” I shouted.

Evans subsided into a corner, his temper simmering.

“Just keep your fucking mouths shut if you know what’s good for you,” he muttered.

 

There was silence the rest of the way to the Top Gear studio.

Evans opened the car door with bad grace once we arrived.

“Remember what I said,” he warned as we climbed out into the sunshine. “I’ll be seeing you boys soon…..”

The car door closed and as it drove away we heard screams emitting from inside, the car rocking on its chassis as Evans doled out his own form of justice to his previously trusted henchman. We watched until it had disappeared from sight, scarcely able to believe we had our freedom, half expecting the car to appear again with guns poking from the windows.

When no such thing happened, we turned and began to trudge towards the studio.

Looking back, it’s likely we were suffering from some kind of PTSD. Still in shock, we were unable to speak to one another as we approached the safety of the Top Gear family. I wanted to cry, to scream and yell to the sky, but I felt numb.

A door flew open and a small figure appeared, framed in the doorway. It gave a small whoop and began to run towards us.

“Hammond!” James’s voice was a pale imitation of its usual timbre, but there was familiarity enough to give me hope. Hammond came running up full pelt, his little face stretched into a joyful grin, his arms outstretched as he launched himself at us. We were nearly knocked backwards by the force of his hug and as he made contact it was as if someone had turned off the traction control in my head. I began to weep, great heaving sobs that shook my body under the strain as I held our unlikely saviour to my bosom.

“Don’t cry, Jeremy!” piped up Hamster affectionately. “You’re home now!”

 

Back in the studio, Hammond told us all about his escape. He wouldn’t divulge exactly what Giles had done to him, but he confessed that the last straw had been when he’d seen Giles and his colleagues beating up James.

“It was four against one and that’s not fair!” he said indignantly. “I knew I had to go and get help and nobody was watching me, so I ran outside before anyone noticed I was gone.”

“You’re a brave lad and no mistake,” said James affectionately, ruffling Hammond’s hair, making the Hamster beam with pride.

He hopped around hyperactively as he told us about climbing the tree to get over the wall and about his descent to the other side using his pyjamas knotted together. He was just about to recount hitchhiking through the English countryside when word came to us that Andy Wilman wanted to talk to us.

“You’d better go and see Uncle Andy,” said Hammond regretfully. “He’s been very worried.”

“How much did you tell him about what happened?” asked James.

“Oh, I didn’t tell him anything!” reported Hammond earnestly. “Giles said he’d kill all my dogs and horses if I said anything! He’s a very bad man.”

“Yes, he is,” mused James absently. I could tell he was wondering how much we should reveal about our own adventures.

 

Andy Wilman looked up as we walked in. He was perched casually on the edge of his desk, leafing through scripts.

“Glad you boys could join us,” he quipped sarcastically. “What kept you?”

I opened my mouth intending to pour out the full, horrible tale but before I could speak James stepped in.

“We got rascally drunk I’m afraid, Andy,” he chuckled sheepishly. “Found ourselves in the Isle of Wight! Only just got back……”

He glanced at me meaningfully. I closed my mouth.

“Is that right, Jeremy?” asked Andy Wilman. “Did you get drunk and stranded on the Isle of Wight?”

His gaze seemed to bore through me. I nodded dumbly. Andy Wilman narrowed his eyes.

“Are you sure?” he insisted. “You weren’t, for example, kidnapped and held somewhere against your will?”

I shook my head before finally finding my voice.

“Of course not, Andy Wilman!” I exclaimed weakly. “What a preposterous idea.”

Andy Wilman stared at me for a long time before relaxing.

“Well, that’s ok then!” he said jovially. “Next time, be more careful, eh boys? We’re on a tight schedule, after all.”

“Sorry, Andy,” said James. “Won’t happen again.”

Andy Wilman got to his feet and made to leave the room. He winked at me as he walked past, then in a move that was pure Columbo stopped and turned back.

“Oh, just one thing – if it happens again, should I maybe see if Chris Evans knows where you are?”

James and I exchanged glances. Andy Wilman’s face was a picture of inquiring innocence.

“Erm….it’s worth a try….?” suggested James. Andy Wilman nodded.

“Ok, got it. Back to work then – busy, busy, busy…..”

He left the room.

 

James and I worked solidly all morning, throwing ourselves into our work once more. I did not want to think about what had happened and tried to distract myself in the world of cars – my second favourite world after Jamesland!

With so many people around it proved easier to put it out of my mind than I had anticipated. Being the consummate professional that I am, I’m sure none my ordeal showed in the quality of the filming produced that morning.

We broke for lunch after an action packed morning. As James and I munched on bacon rolls we managed to grab a moment alone. I had no desire to talk about what we’d discussed with Andy Wilman earlier but I knew it had to be done.

“How did he know, do you think?” I asked, wiping bacon grease from my chin. “Did Hammond tell him after all?”

“I doubt it,” said James swallowing a mouthful of bread. “He loves his dogs and horses, he wouldn’t want to risk Giles killing them. No, I think there’s an awful lot more to Andy Wilman than meets the eye. He’s actually remarkably perceptive.”

James gazed across the Top Gear track where a fine mist hung. He had a dot of ketchup on his lower lip that I wanted to kiss away, but I contented myself with wiping it off with my thumb. He grinned at me and my heart soared. No matter what had happened over the past couple of weeks, his spirit was unquenchable! Under his make-up I could faintly detect the bruises and cuts on his face that Giles and his colleagues had put there and the sight of them only reinforced my feelings for him. He was so brave, so noble, so fiery! I counted myself lucky every morning that he was mine, but never had I felt it so much at that moment and I longed to be alone with him.

“Later,” he said, reading my mind and dropping me a wink. I blushed at the thoughts going through my head and wondered, not for the first time, how he always managed to put them there no matter what the circumstances!

 

Over the days to come I tried to return to normality as much as possible and put the whole experience behind me. It wasn’t easy, as I intuited deep down that Evans would never just let us off that easily. He was a dangerous obsessive and I knew I had to be ready for his next move.

James helped with my state of mind as much as he could. At the end of each working day, before we returned to our respective homes, we would find a secluded place where we could make love. I set upon him with a fervour that almost approached violence, sometimes feeling no satisfaction until we had done it two or three times. I exhausted him with my demands, I know, but he performed uncomplainingly every time. It was a strange thing to do, maybe, but I needed to feel James’s body against mine as much as I could, replacing the memory of Evans and the deeds he had done, erasing the crimes against my flesh he committed.

By the time Friday came my previously apparent indifference could not be borne any longer: As we quit work that day and walked to our cars, I felt a sickening sensation began to form in the pit of my stomach. As James chattered on unaware, asking my opinion on which hideaway we should go to for the weekend, the feeling gripped me with a ferocity that made my bowels clench. I fumbled for my car keys with numb fingers, my heart hammering in my chest and my breathing harsh and rapid. James glanced at me to see why I wasn’t answering his questions and I saw his expression change to one of shock.

“Oh my god, Jeremy! Your face is white as a sheet! Whatever is the matter, darling?”

I could not answer, the words I wished to say lost in the sudden chattering of my teeth. My body began to sag, my knees too weak to support me and James immediately took charge, grabbing me and guiding me to a low wall where I could sit.

“Calm down, dearest,” urged James, rubbing my back soothingly. “Try and control your breathing.”

“But James,” I stuttered. “I feel so very afraid all of a sudden!”

“It must be delayed shock,” opined James wisely. “It’s Friday. You’re expecting some kind of attack from Evans.”

“Not consciously,” I protested.

“Then it’s that dratted subconscious of yours. It’s not your fault, Jeremy – it’s quite understandable after everything we’ve been through.”

James crouched down in front of me, seeking eye contact, almost a mirror of the way he sometimes stooped to talk to Hammond when he wanted his full attention.

“Jeremy, we can’t let Evans rule our lives. We have to move on.” He sighed, reaching out to smooth a stray curl from my forehead. “Look, let’s not go to any of our usual retreats – let’s get a room in a swanky hotel for the weekend, somewhere busy and lively with lots of people around. You might find it easier if we’re surrounded by people. What do you say?”

I attempted a smile, wanting to please him. In truth, it did sound like a good idea and I felt better knowing we weren’t going to be isolated, tucked out of sight and out of mind and vulnerable. James smiled back, stroking my cheek.

“Good boy. Come on then – last one to the main road pays for the room!”

James knew I could never resist a challenge! I leapt to my feet and had raced off to my car before he’d even stood up.

 

I won, but had a sneaking suspicion James had let me win. It didn’t matter, though, as the result put me in a much better mood.

We chose our hotel, right in the centre of London, surrounded by traffic and people and nightlife. James booked us in whilst I looked around the lobby happily, enjoying the hustle and bustle of activity. The sight of so many people coming and going filled me with confidence and the amount of staff close at hand reassured me just as much. James even went so far as to stipulate to the concierge that Mr Chris Evans was allowed no contact with us for the weekend.

When we got to our room I wanted to make love right away. It was different from our sessions during the past week – slower, more leisurely and much more relaxed. I felt fulfilled afterwards in a way I hadn’t felt for a while and lay in a sexual stupor whilst James showered.

Once he was dried and dressed, I attempted to tidy myself up but the man looking back at me in the mirror looked flushed and wanton. I felt like my satisfaction would be obvious to all who saw the glint in my eye, the roses in my cheeks and the ruffling of my curls. James embraced me from behind as I tried to wet down a particularly recalcitrant cow-lick.

“You look lovely, Jeremy – as always….” He purred. “You can’t improve on perfection, so don’t even try!”

“But James, everyone who sees me will know I’ve just had sex!” I complained, smoothing out a wrinkle in my shirt collar.

“Let them know,” he growled, nipping at my ear lobe in a way that sent shivers down my spine. “Besides, I love the way you look when I’ve just had you – you’re adorable: All embarrassed at the memories but all smug and sated too.”

James distracted me so much I had to sternly send him out of the room and my toilet eventually just consisted of running a hasty brush through my hair and putting a corduroy jacket on to conceal the creases in my shirt. James raised his eyebrows when he saw the beige fabric.

“I say, Jeremy, you’ve got a nerve! Complaining that I’m distracting you then wearing corduroy…..You little tease! You know I’m going to be thinking about peeling that jacket off all the way through dinner!”

I stifled a giggle. James has always had a thing about corduroy and seeing me in it never failed to inflame his ardour.

“This old thing?” I remarked, pretending to be oblivious to his fresh arousal. “Just something I threw on. Do you like it?”

“You know I do, you little coquette! Now get to the lift before I ravish you….”

I gave a little squeal as he gave me a playful smack across the bottom and scampered from the room with him in pursuit.

 

Dinner was wonderful, with gin and tonics whilst we browsed the menu and several bottles of wine during the meal. I flirted shamelessly with James as we dined, playing footsie with him under the table. Occasionally, when nobody else was looking, I stroked the lapels of my jacket seductively, watching his reaction as he squirmed opposite.

We shared a dessert with a glass of brandy each and by the time we left the restaurant I was decidedly tipsy, clutching James’s arm to keep myself steady. I knew my behaviour during dinner had earned me a delightful session of James’s own special retribution and the anticipation of such thrilled me as we crossed the hotel’s foyer.

The lift seemed to take forever to descend and I was in a fever of excitement at the way his eyes undressed me while we waited. His gaze held the merest hint of sexual danger and promised a plethora of raunchy delights. I sneaked a glance at the front of his jeans and felt almost faint at the outline of what he had ready for me, bulging the zip of his fly out of shape.

There was a commotion in the lobby, a crash as someone’s suitcase was dropped by the hotel porter and I instinctively looked across at the disturbance, observing the goings on with little interest. The suitcase was picked up in short order and as I turned my scrutiny away I caught a glimpse of something else that stopped me in my tracks. From the corner of my eye, I espied a flash of orange, a glint of ginger that froze me to the core and filled me with dread.

  
  



	26. Paranoia

Something must have given me away – some expression, some involuntary noise – for within an instant James was at my side, tugging at my sleeve and demanding to know what was wrong. I could not answer him, however, for my eyes were frantically scanning the busy lobby, scouring the throng for the face of our nemesis. I did not see him, but that did not set my mind at rest, convinced as I was that he had lost himself in the crowds.

James’s voice was an incessant chorus in my ear, calling my name with increasing despair. Though my lips felt numb I did my utmost to answer him, stammering as I did so.

“It was him, James – I’m sure it was!”

James did not need to be told who  _ he _ was. His senses on high alert he strode a couple of steps into the foyer, his gaze sweeping the hordes gathered there.

“You saw him? Where was he?” James was rolling up his sleeves, ready to do battle.

I faltered.

“Well, it could have been him…..” I conceded.

James turned to me, taking my hands in his. His face was a picture of compassion and understanding.

“Was it him, Jeremy?” he asked me gently.

I hung my head.

“I can’t possibly say for sure,” I admitted. “I just saw a flash of ginger hair…… I didn’t see a face.”

“Just ginger hair? It could have been Mick Hucknall for all you know!” James laughed.

I felt embarrassed, but still I could not shake the feeling of unease pervading me. I looked around, searching for the tell-tale glint of copper, but saw none. Was I going mad?

James put his arm around my shoulders, craning his neck up to kiss me on the temple.

“Never mind, Jeremy, you old sausage,” he said. “Let’s just go up to our room and have a drink. I’ve managed to smuggle a rather nice bottle of port in my suitcase.”

 

The lift had gone back up again and we had to wait for it to return. While we lingered, the flesh on the back of my neck seemed to crawl as if under some vile scrutiny, but I dared not trust my perceptions as they had let me down too often.

If this had been a movie the lift doors would have slid open before us to reveal Evans standing in there, a maniacal grin on his face and some kind of weapon in his hand, but as it was mere reality the lift doors opened to reveal only an empty lift. We slipped inside quickly and I was only able to relax once the doors had closed behind us. During the ascent James attempted to divert me with numerous topics ranging from steam trains to barcode scanners, but I barely heard his chatter. My mind was in a turmoil, my nerves in tatters.

It seemed to take an eternity, but we reached our room safely and sealed ourselves inside and I heaved a great sigh as the door was locked behind us. I knew that we were in the safest place possible, surrounded as we were by security staff and CCTV, but Evans had infiltrated my psyche to such an extent it seemed there was no hiding place that could not be breached by him. In my mind he had somehow taken on the abilities of one of the X-Men!

James bustled about finding glasses and digging the bottle of port out of his suitcase. I hoped the alcohol would soothe me and felt guilty that my unconfirmed sighting had ruined the mood we had built up beforehand. The eagerness I had been feeling had dissipated and I had no doubt that even James’s lazy lob had diminished in size. 

Determined to recapture the atmosphere, I made my way to the bed.

James was prattling on about the quality of the port he had brought, telling me about its country of origin and discussing the vintage. Even so, I knew I had limited time in which to act and worked feverishly to set up my surprise.

By the time James turned round, glasses in hand, I was ready: Reclining on the bed, one hand supporting my head, naked but for the corduroy jacket.

I have always enjoyed being naked whilst James is clothed: Comparing the rough satin of my skin to the rougher cloth of his jeans serves to underscore my nudity in a way that really brings home my sense of exposure and thus adds to the feeling that I’m doing something very naughty……

My love did not disappoint with his reaction and the glasses were left forgotten on the bedside cabinet as he joined me on the bed, his hands seeking my most intimate areas. I revelled beneath his touch, determined to lose myself to sensation and forget all about Chris Evans.

James’s jeans brushed against my leg hairs, bringing goosebumps to my skin, the thickened fabric of his fly nudging my burgeoning erection. The buttons on his shirt pressed into my breast and belly, leaving marks on the soft flesh like a tattoo of his ownership. I savoured the feeling, feeling cared for and wanted in his possession in a way that Evans would never be able to make me feel with his coarse control. I arched my back, pressing myself fully to James’s body, wanting to experience his full dominion over me.

An idea occurred, something I felt I wanted – no,  _ needed _ – but was unsure of how to ask for it. The first part was simple enough: I extended my hands above my head, crossing them at the wrists whilst regarding him coyly. It was our own private signal and James picked up on it immediately, the wicked lechery in his responding smile sent a pulse of pure lust into my loins.

James inspected the room, searching for what was needed and found it in short order, in the form of the belts from the complimentary white towelling robes. He divested both gowns of the cords, testing their strength in front of me by winding the ends around his fists and pulling, showing me that I would be completely within his power once secured. The sight sent shockwaves running through my body, my penis leaping in response and I lay back limply, submissive, wanton.

He took his time tying me, teasing me with one denim-clad thigh between my legs as he worked, winding the white cord around my wrists in a figure of eight until I was helpless. Unfortunately, the headboard provided no suitable anchor to secure me to, so I had to pretend I was fastened to the bed.

James stood, gazing down at me from the bedside, admiring his handiwork. His hard-on was a thick pillar straining down one leg of his jeans like a mighty sex-python. I wriggled against my bonds, relishing my absolute surrender.

I closed my eyes, suddenly shy at what I was about to ask for.

“James?” I asked breathlessly.

“Yes, darling?”

“Did I misbehave very badly at dinner?” I asked, approaching my request in a roundabout way. I opened my eyes to gauge his reaction, fluttering my eyelashes nervously.

James observed me for what seemed like an eternity before replying.

“Your behaviour was…..absolutely dreadful….” he decided finally and I sighed in delight. “I think maybe….you need to be punished?” he suggested.

I nodded vigorously, blushing like a virgin on her wedding night, relieved that I didn’t have to spell it out. James had picked up on my desires once more and instinctively knew what I craved.

“Very well. Roll over,” he ordered. His voice was authoritative but at the same time gentle and whilst I knew I would yield to his every sexual command I also knew I trusted him completely. A haze of sensuality seemed to cloud my vision as I slowly obeyed, rolling over onto my belly, my stiffy pushing into the mattress.

My breath was heavy, my head light. James was in no hurry getting me ready, the ceremony of preparation holding almost as much erotic significance as the act itself. My senses were aflame as he settled himself comfortably on the bed beside me. There was movement and I turned my head to the side to watch him. He had picked up a pillow and was plumping it up on his lap thoughtfully. For a second I had a horrific flashback to my time as Evans’s bed companion and a tiny part of me expected James to suddenly lunge at me, holding the pillow over my face. Instead, he bade me lift my hips from the bed and when I did so slipped the pillow beneath my belly, lifting my rump into a perfect presentation. My rear was only just covered by the tails of the corduroy jacket, my buttocks peeping cheekily from beneath the hem and I gasped as he flipped the fabric up, deftly exposing me. My emotions were in a turmoil, the shame of what I was subjecting myself to overcome by the powerful eroticism brought about by my capitulation. I needed the humiliation, the subjugation. I was intoxicated, heady from arousal, limp with lust.

James laid his hand on my bottom, squeezing the fleshy mounds as if testing their resilience. I moaned at the sensation, lifting my hips higher, welcoming his mastery.

He leaned forward, placing his lips near my ear, his breath stirring my curls.

“Remember to use the safe word if it all becomes too much for you,” he reminded me. I nodded, barely able to form words, so lost was I in my euphoria.*

The formalities over, James began to spank me.

He didn’t do it hard – he didn’t need to: My nerve endings were so sensitive he could have beat me with a feather and I would have responded in the same way. He used his fingers to deal out stinging slaps that doubtless brought colour to my cheeks without causing too much pain and I was soon in heat, twisting and moaning on the bed. As my endorphins began to kick in he began to spank harder in order to get a response, moving from one buttock to the other, his hand a weapon and a medicine, bruising me and curing me at the same time. I wept under the onslaught, not from pain but from the sheer intensity of my feelings. Every time his hand met my skin it seemed to release something in me – something that had been festering inside me ever since we had met Chris Evans. It purified and healed me, my tears washing the sickness from my soul.

There was a point when I felt the pain keenly, the moment when pleasure and agony met for an instant and the safe word hung on my lips, but I held back and soon enough the moment passed to be replaced with exquisite rapture.

I barely noticed when he stopped, lost as I was in a servile torpor. Part of me was aware of the rustling of cloth, the sound of a zip, the whisper of garments being shed and then James was there, naked and glorious, his engorged member prodding at my back passage.

I welcomed him into my inner sanctum – he had earned his place there! Bit by bit he entered, careful and respectful even though he had conquered me and could have barged rudely in. I strained against the dressing gown cords at my wrists, proving to myself that I was completely under his dominance – and there was no place I would rather be.

We came in unison, our bodies in concord with each other, his hand reaching around and sneaking beneath my belly to stimulate me further. As he spunked up my rear I came into the pillow supporting me, a sticky mess I wallowed in heedlessly. My cries reverberated around the hotel room, his joining me in a duet of elation and we lay there, spent and exhausted, for an immeasurable time.

 

Afterwards, once I was untied and cleaned up, my bottom a throbbing mass of heated flesh, we lay in each other’s arms. I felt cleansed in a way I could not describe, the worry of Evans receding in the wake of such powerful emotions.

“Thank you, James,” I murmured sleepily. “I needed that.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” James insisted, laughing throatily. I cuddled up to him, willing to lose myself in slumber, but as I hovered there on the edge of dreams I felt a remnant of anxiety stir within. I had been sleeping last time when Evans had kidnapped us – how could I sleep knowing it could happen again?

“Go to sleep, Jeremy,” urged James. “I’ll keep watch tonight.”

With that reassurance, I was finally able to drop off.

 

When I woke the next morning, I was still in the hotel. James was sitting up in bed next to me, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. He looked haggard from lack of sleep but blessedly normal and safe just the same.

I yawned and stretched, made aware of the pretty picture I presented whilst doing so by the look of appreciation James gave me.

“Good morning, my Sleeping Beauty,” he said, leaning over to give me my first kiss of the day. “And how did you sleep?”

“Like a baby,” I admitted, curling up against him and snuggling up to his chest. He put his arm around me, his hand sneaking by instinct down to my bottom as it often did. The skin on my buttocks was still sensitive from the night before, but not unbearably so and the slight soreness was a lovely reminder of what had taken place.

“Would you like breakfast in bed today?” inquired James, folding his newspaper and cuddling me.

I felt invigorated and brave by his side, safe in a hotel bed and unmolested during the night.

“Let’s go down for breakfast,” I suggested. “Last one in the shower is a Morris Minor!”

With that, I leapt from his embrace and darted towards the bathroom, hearing his laughter behind me as he gave chase.

 

Once we had shared a leisurely shower we dressed and made our way downstairs to the hotel restaurant. It was only once we were seated and perusing the menu that I remembered to check my phone. We had turned our mobiles off the night before as a precaution and my feeling of misgiving recurred as I turned it on and waited for the welcome screen. Opposite me, James was doing the same, a similar expression of apprehension on his face.

There were several missed calls indicated and I swallowed hard before checking the menu. Andy Wilman had phoned once but the rest of the phone numbers were unavailable – all seven of them. I glanced up at James, who was trying to look unconcerned but my senses were highly attuned to his moods.

“How many?” I asked. “I’ve got 7 unknown numbers.”

“Nine,” admitted James reluctantly.

“Do you think it’s him?” I quavered.

James shrugged.

“So what if it is?” he responded angrily. “He’ll just be trying to intimidate us and I’m not going to allow it! Don’t answer any phone calls if you don’t know the number, Jeremy – promise me!”

I squirmed at his masterful tone, willing to promise almost anything when he used that voice with me! Not that securing my promise was necessary – I had no desire to speak to Evans in any case.

“I promise,” I agreed quickly. “Should we check Hammond is ok?”

James’s face went pale.

“Shit,” he cursed. “I forgot about Hammond!”

James insisted on leaving the dining room to make the phone call to Hammond, asserting that it was rude to talk on the phone whilst people were eating. I had to wait until I could discover news of Hamster’s wellbeing, fiddling nervously with my cutlery. The waiter brought our food in the interminable time it took James to return and I was so anxious I could barely eat, only managing to pick at 3 sausages and a couple of rashers of bacon by the time he got back. I was in a fever of impatience to receive intelligence of Hammond, not allowing James to sit down before demanding his account.

“Hammond’s fine,” he reported. “His wife confiscated his phone and turned it off, but he had five missed calls when she checked this morning.”

“Oh, God…” I felt faint with this disclosure and took a sip of tea to revive myself.

“Now, don’t panic, Jeremy,” ordered James. “It’s just phone calls. He doesn’t know where we are and if he’d wanted to do anything last night Hammond would have been the perfect victim, unprotected as he was. Evans knows where he lives and yet he didn’t pay him a visit, did he?”

“Perhaps not,” I answered, knowing instinctively that James was being reasonable but unable to dismiss my unease. “We don’t know for certain that he wasn’t loitering around Hammond’s house last night.”

James sighed, patting my hand.

“You’re such a worrier!” he laughed and I could not help but feel slightly galled at his patronising tone. Yes, he was probably right, I  _ was _ a worrier, but that did not mean my concerns were unfounded!

I tried not to pout as I resumed my meal, not wanting James to be aware of my vexation, but he noticed my displeasure and chose not to comment on it until breakfast was finished.

“You know, if you’re going to sulk like that, I’ll have to do something about it when we get back to our room,” he commented casually, sipping his coffee.

“What do you mean?” I asked innocently, but my cheeks prickled with the rush of blood to my face.

“Well, you’ve been glowering at me most of the way through breakfast,” remarked James. “I think that deserves some form of discipline, don’t you?”

“You wouldn’t dare!” I squawked, blushing even more furiously despite my rising excitement. Several people turned at my exclamation, smiling privately at my obvious embarrassment.

“Wouldn’t I?” James raised his eyebrows, smiling and I had to look at my plate to avoid his gaze.

As I struggled to find a fitting response, the waiter appeared at our table, carrying two tall glasses on a tray.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, unloading his burden. “Two Bucks Fizzes, courtesy of the gentlemen over there.”

James was still smiling at my distress as he scanned the dining room for our benefactor.

“Which gentleman?” he asked.

“The gentleman with the ginger hair…..Oh!” The waiter frowned. “He seems to have gone……..”

  
  
  


* Our safe word was Volkswagen.


	27. Stalked

James was on his feet in a trice, pushing past the confused waiter.

“Stay there!” he ordered over his shoulder as he loped towards the lobby.

I did as I was told, wringing my hands fretfully. Just knowing that Evans had been in such close proximity made my stomach turn, threatening to expel its splendid breakfast from one end or the other.

By the time James returned, I was in a fine state. He was shaking his head regretfully before he even reached the table so there was no need for me to ask.

The waiter tried to leave, obviously uncomfortable with the situation, but James did not let him go without interrogating him first.

“This ginger gentleman,” he inquired. “Was he Mr Chris Evans?”

“I couldn’t say, sir,” replied the waiter nervously. “Is there a problem?”

“You know what Chris Evans looks like, don’t you?” demanded James. “Think, man, what did he look like apart from the gingerness?”

“Well, sir, he had black rimmed glasses and a large, bushy, luxuriant moustache, waxed at the ends with a flourish, rather like a Victorian villain’s.”

“Could it have been false?” asked James sharply.

The waiter hesitated, his eyes flicking from side to side in a trapped manner. Suddenly, a five pound note appeared in James’s hand as if by magic, and the waiter eyed it greedily.

“Yes, sir, I would say it was false!” he offered. “It was black, a completely different colour from the hair on his head!”

“Very well. This is for your trouble,” said James, tucking the banknote into the waiter’s breast pocket. “Now run along!”

Once the waiter had gone James turned to me, his jaw set in an angry grimace.

“Damn the man! There’s nothing for it, Jeremy – we’ll have to pack our things and move to another hotel!”

As much as I longed to do just that, I hesitated.

“But James,” I reasoned. “Surely if we do that he will find us again? I don’t want to run any more. Let’s stay where we are – we’re as safe here as anywhere.”

“Are you sure?” James took my hands tenderly in his. “We can leave if you want to.”

“No, James. You were right – he can’t do anything to us here. We’re surrounded by security and CCTV. Let him loiter around us if he wants to – I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of going on the run!”

James grinned at me broadly, pride beaming from him.

“You’re so brave!” he exclaimed. “Good boy.”

I raised my chin, a glimmer of defiance showing in my bearing.

“James, I’m not a boy – I’m a  _ man _ !” I declared.

James nodded apologetically.

“You’re right, darling,” he admitted. “I’m sorry.”

I gazed at him, his blue eyes so bright in that crowded room, and melted a little. How could I stay cross with him?

“You’re forgiven,” I told him magnanimously. I glanced at my watch. “How long until lunch? Is it worth going back to our room?”

 

We decided to go for a stroll in the hotel gardens to walk off our breakfast and kill time before lunch. Despite my previous bravado, I was a bundle of nerves, fighting the constant urge to peer over my shoulder. Everywhere I looked I saw Evans: from the nodding heads of the orange chrysanthemums to the copper sculptures that nestled in the foliage.

James was grimly silent for much of the walk, barely noticing the horticultural splendour around him. I could tell the Evans situation was preying on his mind and attempted to divert him with cheery prattle about the ridiculous appearance of the Renault Twizy, but it was no use. In despair, I suggested we return to our room and watch a film.

 

It was fortuitous that when I turned on the TV one of my favourite films ever was on:  _ Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid _ . We had settled down on the bed to watch, cuddling up together contentedly, when inspiration struck me.

“That’s where we should go to do our next Special!” I suggested.

James frowned.

“But that’s in Bolivia,” he pointed out. “We’ve done a special there before.”

“Ah, but it’s not,” I told him, keen to show off my knowledge of my heroes. “The film says it’s in Bolivia but they actually went to Argentina first!”

I jumped off the bed and began to pace up and down excitedly, caught up in the idea.

“We could go to the actual cabin he stayed in……” I pondered.

“But Jeremy….” James sat up, a look of reluctance on his face. “Argentina? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I scoffed.

“Well, you know, what with the Falklands war and everything…..and you being quite outspoken…..Isn’t it possible you might upset someone there?”

I stared at him, aghast.

“How could you say that?” I managed eventually, affronted. “I wouldn’t upset anyone!”

James looked doubtful and I confronted him, my hands set firmly on my hips.

“James Daniel May, how dare you! When have I ever offended anybody?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I suddenly recalled a couple of occasions when I had offended people and stopped him before he could reel off what was probably quite a lengthy list.

“Alright, alright!” I waved him down. “What if I promise?”

“That’s good enough for me,” said James. “But it’s Andy Wilman you’ll have to convince!”

“You’re right,” I conceded. “I’ll phone him as soon as the film is over.”

I sat back on the bed, fidgeting at the prospect of going to Butch Cassidy’s cabin, but the film soon absorbed me in its plot and I settled down. I had seen it so many times, watching it at least once a week, that I knew it off by heart and as the storyline progressed I realised I was saying a lot of the lines at the same time as the characters. I thought James might find this irritating, but he insisted with clenched teeth that it wasn’t annoying in any way at all.

I was reluctant to leave the viewing to eat lunch, so we decided to order room service. Unspoken between us was the fear that Evans would try the same trick and use the crowded dining room to spy on us.

We were discussing the scene where Paul Newman is doing tricks on his bike to impress Katharine Ross and whether I’d be able to replicate it with a car when there was a knock on the door.

“Hello?” James called cautiously.

“Room service!” came a muffled voice from outside.

James got off the bed and unlocked the door.

The man who pushed our lunch into the room on a trolley was a hunched over old man with scruffy grey hair and a long beard.

“Here y’ar, gents,” he said in what was probably a broad West Country accent but made him sound more like an aging pirate. “Whar would ye loik it? Arr!”

“By the bed will be fine,” said James absently, his attention drawn back to the TV.

The old man hobbled over to where I sat, limping first on one leg and then on the other. He bumped into several corners on the way and I contemplated how sad it was that in this day and age a man of his years and with evidently poor vision was forced to work.

I favoured him with one of my warmest, sympathetic smiles as he parked the trolley.

“Thank you so much!” I said loudly, assuming he had bad hearing too.

“Oim not deaf!” he exclaimed, somewhat testily, causing James to look round, frowning.

“There’s no need to speak to him like that!” he scolded, leaping to my defence.

“Well, tell yer young tart to moind his manners, then!” swore the old man, shaking his fist at me. “Jest because he’s a pretty one don’t give him no roit to patronise folks!”

It was horrifically embarrassing and I could not wait for the old man to leave.

“Now look here – “ began James, squaring up to the elderly waiter, but the old man snorted.

“I’ll be leaving now, never you moind,” he remarked and to my surprise I saw him wink at me, sharp looking brown eyes peeping at me from between his bushy facial hair and his fringe. “Enjoy yar meal, me hearties!”

With that, he was gone, tripping over a chair leg and bumping into the door frame on his way out. James slammed the door behind him, locking it again.

“Well, what a rude man!” he remarked. “This place really should review the quality of the staff they employ! I’ve a good mind to make a complaint.”

“Oh, don’t, James,” I pleaded. “His days here are probably numbered anyway, he was so old.”

“I know, but there was no call for him to treat you like that,” he mumbled, still bristling. “They should have trained him to be respectful.”

“Come and sit down, darling,” I urged. “I’m starving, aren’t you?”

James sighed and lifted the silver cover from one of the plates, releasing a fragrant cloud of steam. I leaned in to breathe in the pleasing aroma and as the steam cleared noticed something odd: An envelope on top of the steak.

I looked up at James fearfully, not wanting to pick up the note. James stared at the odd addition for a moment before snatching it up and ripping it open in one swift motion. The tattered envelope fell to the floor and he unfolded the sheet of paper it had held.

It took him only a few seconds to scan the contents, his mouth dropping open in horror.

“James, what is it?” I whimpered.

“Damn his testicles!” bellowed James, dropping the note and racing to the door. He was out in an instant, hurrying down the corridor and I grabbed the letter as I chased after him, my belly jiggling uncomfortably. When I caught up a few minutes later, out of breath and with my heart hammering in my chest, James was standing in the corridor just outside our room, clutching something hairy. As I approached, he held it grimly up for my inspection: A grey wig and a false beard.

I gasped.

“You mean -- ?” I did not want to speak the words.

James nodded.

“Evans,” he said. “I knew something was off about that waiter! And the reason he kept bumping into things was because he didn’t have his glasses on.”

“And that accent!” I said in horror.

“Dammit, it’s so obvious now!” James hurled the wig angrily to the floor. “I can’t believe the bastard was in the room with us!”

My legs were shaking and it was all I could do to walk back to our room and collapse onto the bed. It was only then that I remembered the note I held crumpled in my sweaty hand.

I unscrewed it and smoothed the creases out. The ink was smudged from being squashed in my fist but I was able to make out the childish scrawl.

Dear Boys , it read.  Hope you enjoy your meal. It took a long time to get the ingredients but I think the end result was well worth it. Eat up, bitches! Ha ha ha ha ha! Love Chris xxxx

“What do you think he means about the ingredients?” I asked as James entered the room.

“I don’t know,” said James. “But I’m not ingesting the tiniest morsel of that food if Evans has had his hands on it! God knows what he’s done to it.”

I shuddered at a mental image of Evans injecting strychnine into the chips, fondling the steak and spunking into the peppercorn sauce. I picked up my fork and prodded the steak with the tines, searching for evidence of mischief. It was oddly stringy and too tough to be the piece of cow I had ordered.

James tilted the lid of the other serving dish and peeked under. I heard him gasp and there was a terrific clang as he dropped the lid back down again, stepping back.

“What is it?” I asked him, reaching for the lid, but he slammed it down again before I could even gain an inch.

“Don’t look!” he urged, his usually commanding tone replaced by one of appalled sadness.

“But what is it?” I demanded, my mind racing and filling the plate opposite me with a multitude of imaginary horrors.

James shook his head.

“I’m so sorry, Jeremy,” he said. “It’s your dog…..”

“Not Didier Dogba!” I wailed, leaping for the serving dish.

James grabbed me and grappled me away from the trolley.

“Don’t look, Jeremy,” he begged. “Let me deal with it, please, you don’t want to see it!”

Huge sobs ripped through my chest, unable to contain the magnitude of my grief. James held me until they had diminished to a monotonous weeping before gently extricating himself and pushing the trolley respectfully from the room.

I lay on the bed, hugging a pillow to my chest and mourning the demise of my dear little dog. The small West Highland Terrier had been named after Didier Drogba, the former Chelsea striker and had sparked controversy when people claimed I was being racist by naming a black dog after a black footballer. Didier the Dog had done nothing wrong though and certainly did not deserve to be killed and cooked by some ginger maniac in a twisted attempt at revenge.

James was gone a long time – long enough for the pain of grief in my chest to be replaced by cold, hard anger. Evans had killed my brilliant dog just to upset me, as though Didier’s life and death was a mere plot device, like Brad Pitt’s wife in Se7en. Then and there, lying on that comfortless hotel bed, I swore that one day, somehow, I would get my revenge.

James returned after a long while, dishevelled and covered in mud.

“I did my best to give Didier Dogba a decent burial,” he said, obviously bone-weary. “I interred him in the hotel gardens using cutlery from the trolley. He’s at peace now. I said a few words over his grave.”

I got off the bed and went to him, hugging him. He had slogged long and hard to give my little dog a decent resting place and I was unutterably grateful to him.

“Thank you,” I told him simply. “Didier would have loved the gardens – so many places to piss!”

James attempted a smile, but he looked defeated.

“There’s nothing for it,” he said. “We have to call the police and let them sort this whole ungodly mess out.”

“No!” My voice was strong and determined and I could tell James was surprised by my sudden decisiveness. “We can’t tell the police!”

“But Jeremy, the man’s out of control! What if he decides to harm your children next?”

I thought of beloved Thingy and precious Whatshername and the ridiculously named but still treasured Finlo. Despite his insanity, I didn’t think Evans would dare go so far as to hurt the children and even though Francis and I were no longer on good terms I knew she was an excellent mother and would fight to the death to protect our offspring.

“We can’t tell the police, James,” I insisted. “Because one day we may need to do something permanent about Evans and when that day comes we do not want to be under suspicion.”

“What do you mean?” James already had one hand on the phone but I gently and firmly moved it away.

“One day he may need to be killed, James, and the world will look for his enemies. But thanks to him and his publicity stills he insisted we had taken, we will be counted as his friends. We don’t want the police involved with their paperwork and their records.”

James looked at me for a long time, his eyes looking right into my soul. I was patient, waiting for him to decide what he wanted to do. I cannot say I was confident in his decision, but I knew that his love was a more powerful tool of his reasoning than anything else.

Eventually he nodded, a faint smile broaching his countenance.

“Dash it all, you’re a clever chap, darling,” he said. “And braver than I ever thought possible!”

I took his hands, looking deep into his eyes. I had to be sure of his commitment.

“Do you understand me truly, James?” I asked. “Are you prepared to go along with whatever it is needs to be done in the future?”

He held my gaze, strong and immovable. His eyes saw promises of death and did not flinch.

“I understand, Jeremy. And I will support whatever endeavour you choose – no matter how fatal.”

My heart soared at his words. He had made the ultimate commitment to me, there in that insignificant hotel room – a commitment more binding and serious than any marriage. He had promised me that, should the necessity arise, we might one day kill Chris Evans.

  
  
  
  



	28. Land of Confusion

I was not naïve enough to think that we had seen the last of Evans that weekend, but still I refused to leave the hotel and find another place. Instead, I made arrangements by telephone to purchase another black West Highland Terrier. Hard as it was to replace Didier Dogba, I did not want anyone to know what Evans had done and the new dog would be named and treated the same way as his predecessor.

That evening we decided against going to the hotel restaurant as Evans had evidently had no problems infiltrating the kitchen staff and we did not want to risk consuming another pet or family member, let alone eat food that Evans might have interfered with. We went instead to a nearby gastro pub, reasoning that it would take time for Evans to locate and then insinuate himself there. I searched the other diners for evidence of unusual facial hair or outlandish accents but was satisfied by the time our food arrived that Evans had not yet found us.

James scrutinised the person serving us whilst I inspected the food – a rather nice venison pie served with seasonal vegetables. James was satisfied that the waitress was indeed female and I was happy that the pie case contained pure Bambi and with that we were finally able to eat.

We had a thoroughly pleasant evening, even tainted as it was by the memories of poor Didier. I spent most of the meal reminiscing about funny things my pooch had done and was even able to order dessert.

Hammond phoned part of the way through our dinner, but it was only a progress report to verify that everything was okay in the land of Herefordshire. We debated telling Hamster about what had happened to Didier but I didn’t want to cause him unnecessary distress and now Evans seemed to be content to torment James and I we weren’t overly concerned about anything happening to Hammond. We merely reinforced the usual caveats about watching out for strangers and staying safe in his house.

We paid our bill and left, strolling through the surprisingly balmy streets. James suggested visiting the theatre but I knew I’d find it dreadfully dull and suggested a session of vigorous lovemaking in its stead. We both agreed on this course of action but James stipulated that this would only take place after his dinner had gone down.

It was only a short walk back to the hotel but as we progressed James began to look edgy, glancing over his shoulder often and weaving through the crowds in an evasive way.

Disguising the action as an affectionate hip-bump, I veered into him and used the opportunity to whisper:

“What’s going on, James?”

James fixed me with a rather desperate expression, a big fake smile looking out of place on his normally natural features.

“Don’t look round, whatever you do, Jeremy, but I think we’re being followed.”

I fought the urge to peer around, clutching onto James’s hand with knuckle-crunching force.

“Is it Evans?” I asked casually, manufacturing my own smile and accompanying it with a flirtatious toss of my hair.

“I’m not sure,” James replied. “It doesn’t look like him but he might be disguised.”

“What do we do? Should we go back to the hotel?” I asked. “Evans already knows where we’re staying so it’s not like we’d be giving away our whereabouts.”

“I don’t know,” said James, clearly exasperated. “Damn the fellow, can’t he leave us in peace? Maybe we should lead him somewhere remote where we can deal with him discreetly….”

I pondered the options, struggling with my innate fear and trying to weigh up the pros and cons objectively. I was tired of being Evans’s bitch, a reluctant plaything dangled, puppet-like, at the ends of his lunatic strings. He seemed to stalk and harass us at his own whim, leaving us trying to second-guess his motives and movements and it wasn’t fair.

“Maybe we should do that,” I agreed. “Take control of the situation, show him we’re not going to be manipulated by his devilry!”

James looked at me with pride, his hand squeezing mine warmly.

“Good show, Jeremy,” he said. “You never fail to amaze me!”

I simpered beneath his praise, unable to help myself.

Together, we began to break away from the crowd, trying to appear relaxed and spontaneous, heading for the quieter side streets. As we traversed the lonelier pavements it became obvious that James was right: We were being followed. The figure that darted in and out of alleys and hid behind parked cars seemed stockier than Evans, but given his skill at disguising himself he may have been padded to avoid detection. He had not counted on James’s eagle eyes, however!

We took another random turn and it wasn’t until we were halfway down the road that we realised our mistake: the lane we had chosen was a dead end.

Quickly, James turned us around and hurried us along the way we’d come, but it was too late. As we neared the entrance of the cul-de-sac a dark form appeared from a hidden doorway and blocked our progress.

James tried to push me behind him, but I’d had my fill of cringing behind my man. I stood at his side with my head held high, my fists trembling as I confronted the man who I believed had murdered my dog.

“Get it over with, Evans!” I cried. “We’re not afraid of you anymore!”

But as the man stepped from the shadows in which he lurked, we realised it was not Evans, but Giles.

I gasped in horror, knowing how powerful Evans’s henchman was, but Giles held up his hands in a gesture of supplication.

“It’s not what you think!” he assured us, remaining at an unthreatening distance. “I don’t work for Evans anymore!”

“How are we supposed to trust you, after all you’ve done to us?” demanded James, his sleeves rolled up ready for a tussle.

“Because I’ve come to warn you,” said Giles. “Evans has gone mad. He’s been deteriorating for years now, but since he met you three he’s got even worse. He’s obsessed.”

“He killed my dog!” I sobbed.

“I know.” Giles hung his head. “And I’m truly sorry for that. But I had no hand in it – and I know for a fact that he’s planning something worse.”

Giles came closer and I felt James tense beside me but as the goon neared we could the marks of fading bruises marring his features, the result of the beating Evans had dished out on our release mere days before. Both eyes were nearly shut with the swelling, far beyond what Giles and his colleagues had done to James, and he was hunched over, clearly in pain.

“I left his employ after he beat me,” said Giles. “I knew he’d end up killing me one day. This isn’t the first time he’s chastised me physically, but this was by far the worst. He whipped me too.”

I gasped in sympathy, but James needed more convincing.

“Show us,” he enjoined harshly.

Giles hesitated, but looked resigned as he began to undo the buttons of his shirt, hissing in evident pain as he pulled the fabric from his back, the cloth sticking to his skin in places. He turned, displaying a broad, muscular torso covered in cruel lash marks from the waistband of his trousers to the nape of his neck, each one a vivid, raised welt weeping fluids.

I winced at the sight, even James making noises of pity as he regarded the mess that Evans had made.

“He chained me to a ceiling hook in his dungeon and whipped me until I passed out,” recounted Giles dully. “When I came to I had been dumped naked in a ditch several miles away from Evans’s house, bleeding and in agony. I swore then that I would never return to his side.”

“You weren’t blameless in our treatment though,” reminded James, far less forgiving than I was. “You took great pleasure in our abuse, if I recall, plus you molested Hammond!”

Giles began to put his shirt back on.

“I know. I can’t apologise enough. But you have to understand, being around Mr Evans like that was like an addiction, as though he infected you with his madness. I became so accustomed to his perfunctory cruelty I didn’t know any differently and it started to seem as though it was okay.” He paused. “Also, when I found myself in the ditch, I realised whilst I’d been unconscious he had buggered me with such savagery he’d torn my anus. It was the first time he’d ever done such a thing to me and the agony of that surpassed even my whipping. It was then I truly empathised with the sexual torture he’d inflicted upon you.”

“So why come to us now?” asked James, softening towards the erstwhile henchman.

“Because I have a spy in Evan’s house,” he said. “He tells me what’s been going on and what Evans has planned. He’s Evans’s primary sidekick now I’m gone, so he’s privy to most of his lordship’s secrets.”

“You said he was planning something worse than the death of my dog?” I said, a shiver going down my spine at the thought of anything worse than that.

Giles nodded.

“That’s why I came to warn you,” he said. “Evans has more than one property – some not even the press know about, some even more remote than the photography studio. Some underground. He wants to capture you both and take you to one of those, far from the public eye, and keep you imprisoned for the rest of your lives – or to kill you.”

 

We said our goodbyes to our new ally and set off back to our hotel. We had suspected that Evans would raise the stakes in the future, but we hadn’t anticipated how drastically he would do so. Our route back to our sanctuary was on the most crowded streets with the busiest traffic and I felt true terror at the prospect of Evans catching us alone with his new team of bully-boys.

Once we had returned to the relative safety of the hotel, James demonstrated a degree of paranoia I hadn’t considered possible, informing the concierge that we wanted to change rooms. At James’s insistence, we gathered our belongings from our original room in silence, in case Evans had bugged it or smuggled in one of his hidden cameras and James checked each item in our suitcases carefully for signs of tampering.

In our new room, James locked us in, examining the corridor beyond our door through the spy hole, only barricading us in with a chest of drawers once he was satisfied we hadn’t been followed.

Now that Giles had confirmed our worst fears, the possibility of Evans forcibly kidnapping us again seemed more real than ever, only this time it appeared he had no intention of ever letting us out of his clutches alive. I cursed my rounded buttocks and welcoming hole, blaming myself for being so alluring that I had caused an obsession beyond all measure.

James was unable to settle, pacing the floor and checking the spy hole over and over. I quaked alone on the bed, longing for his comforting embrace but unwilling to disturb a routine that seemed to bring him his own comfort.

Finally, I could bear it no more and set to sobbing miserably.

“I cannot endure it anymore!” I lamented. “I can’t live under such duress! Let’s go into the streets and let him take us, James, then at least the waiting will be over!”

“Don’t you dare speak like that, Jeremy!” scolded James. “We’re not done yet by a long shot. I won’t give up without a fight and I certainly won’t just wait for him to come and fetch us with no more will as if I were a limp toy for his amusement!”

“But that is what we’re doing,” I protested. “By locking ourselves away like this, together yet so far apart, we’re simply marking time until he sees fit to snatch us away again! For heaven’s sake, James, let us live our lives while we can and let us do it together!”

James stopped his pacing, a softer expression creeping over his features. His brow, creased in worry, gradually began to unknit itself and his shoulders relaxed as he gazed at me. To my surprise, he began to smile.

“Oh, Jeremy,” he said fondly. “The world will never know the true extent of your wisdom. The viewing public sees only the boorish, clumsy Orang-utan you have so carefully manufactured for their entertainment – they know nothing of your sensitivity and huge heart!”

With that, he was there on the bed beside me, sweeping me into his arms.

“You’re right, as always,” he admitted, kissing my forehead with all the tenderness he could muster. “We can’t just sit around waiting for something to happen to us. Let’s make things happen of our own devising…..”

I sighed contentedly, lying back on the bed as James began to work his magic on me. Whatever Evans had plotted for us, for now it was just James and I, united in pleasure, bonded by love.

 

Words were one thing; reality was another. I was contented enough whilst we made love, but afterwards James fell asleep almost immediately and left me to my thoughts.

I’d spoken bravely enough, but my feelings betrayed me as I lay there in the darkness, unable to sleep. At any moment, I expected Evans to burst in through the door, smashing aside the chest of drawers as if they were balsa wood, or to come rappelling through the window like the SAS. The next day was Sunday and I knew our time together was drawing to an end. In the evening, James would return to his home in Hammersmith and I would have to fend for myself. I would be alone, without James’s protection and companionship, and it was more than I could bear.

I slept little and was fuzzy and irritable by the morning, unwilling to even shower before we left the hotel and went in search of breakfast. As James pushed aside our barricade, it felt as though he were removing all barriers to my feelings. At the sight of the long corridor stretching out ahead of us my sense of doom increased and I struggled to respond to James’s conversational gambits. The thought of being alone again, without my rock to support me, was an awful one.

We chose a bistro with a pavement seating area. As we ate, I watched passers-by, trying to determine if one of them was our dreaded foe. Everyone was a suspect now and I could not relax. I fiddled with my cutlery, pushing my food around on my plate with a distinct lack of appetite.

My gloom was interrupted by James, gazing at me across the table. I’d been lost in a doleful world of my own for quite some time and his voice startled me from the forlorn bleakness of my thoughts.

“Penny for them?”

I jumped, my shoulders hunching in a reflexive action that told James more about my dismal demeanour than any words could have done.

James sighed, reaching over the table to cover one of my hands with his own.

“I know what’s bothering you,” he said. “You really have to stop fretting though. Once the weekend is over we’ll be relatively safe, as Evans will be busy with his breakfast show.”

“ _ Relatively  _ safe?” I asked incredulously. “ _ Relatively _ isn’t  _ completely _ , James! I think I have a right to be worried.”

James waved away my concerns, flapping a careless hand at me in a manner I found both condescending and hurtful.

“Stuff and nonsense, Jeremy,” he scolded. “Try not to think about it. Gosh, anyone would think Evans had superpowers, the way you go on about him!”

I could scarcely believe my ears, hearing James dismissing my fears so casually when he knew what Evans was capable of.

“I just think we should stick together,” I proposed, trying not to admit to my insecurity and my need for James’s presence. “It would make it harder for him to get us.”

Exasperated, James lit a cigarette and blew smoke across the table at me.

“God’s teeth, we have a busy week ahead of us! I can’t babysit you the entire time. I sometimes think you want a nursemaid, not a boyfriend,” he huffed.

Easy tears sprang to my eyes, but I refused to let them creep out. James was being so horrid I did not want him to see me cry and supply him with more ammunition to hurt me. But his words had wounded me deeply. I knew I’d been clingy of late, what with everything that had been going on, but I hadn’t realised I been so bothersome. Why hadn’t he told me before?

“Well, I’m very sorry to be so much trouble, James,” I said stiffly, summoning as much dignity as I was able. “If I’d known I’d caused you such inconvenience I’d have stayed home this weekend!”

“Oh, it hasn’t all been an inconvenience,” he mentioned, winking at me in such a way it brought the blood to my face. “Some bits were quite entertaining! Anyway, have you finished?”

I looked down at my plate. There was still quite a lot of food left on it but my appetite seemed to have vanished.

“Well, I think you’ve had enough in any case,” said James without waiting for my reply. “Don’t want you getting fat, do we? You’ve already put on a bit of weight lately.”

Pushing his chair away from the table, James stood, tossing a few coins on the table top for a tip.

“Come on, slowcoach!” he joshed. “We’ll have to swap nicknames if you keep dithering like this!”

 

We went back to our hotel room. I was silent on the way back and James affected not to notice, carrying on a stream of idle banter regardless of my lack of response. His mood was so different and antagonistic that in truth I was afraid to comment on anything, lest it draw more sarcasm and unkind remarks from him. It was true that the stress of the past weeks must have had an impact on his behaviour as well as mine, but I could not understand how he could be so cruel to me. Did he blame me for his treatment at Evans’s hands? Was it finally too much for him to take punishment on my behalf? Did he believe that somehow I had invited Evans’s attention? It was all too confusing!

James decided to shower and directed me to “make myself useful” and pack our belongings. I did not like being ordered about unless we were in bed but his mood made me reluctant to disobey.

I did as I’d been told as quickly as I could. I was still tired from the night before and thought I might see if I could get forty winks before we checked out of the hotel.

James had refused to barricade the door again, insisting that it was unlikely Evans would strike now, but I knew I would be unable to sleep without the chest of drawers to block the entrance. I moved it myself, defying James’s scorn and lay down on the bed, closing my eyes.

I must have been asleep within moments as when I opened my eyes again the quality of light in the room had changed, travelling further along the wall than it had before. I had a nagging feeling that something was wrong. I checked our blockade: The chest of drawers was where I’d left it, positioned across the door, yet I was alone in the room.

 

Confused, I sat up, looking at my watch and was startled to see that 3 hours had passed since I’d lain on the bed! I could hear water still running in the bathroom, the unremitting hiss of the shower and my heart went cold at the realisation. James never showered as long as this, even when he used a hot wax treatment on his hair. Could he have fallen and injured himself as I slept?

I leapt up, hurrying across the room, my hand already in my pocket to grasp my phone if I needed to call an ambulance. My head was filled with images of James lying on the floor, steam billowing around the small bathroom, blood running from a gash on his head as the shower continued to stream.

I rammed the door open and stopped in my tracks. The steam was there, as I’d expected, but there was so much of it that I couldn’t see to the other side of the room and I walked cautiously in with my arms extended, feeling my way over to the shower to turn off the spray. The sole of my shoe squeaked as I slipped on something and I looked down to see a smear of red streaking under my foot.

“James?” I called hopefully, but there was no reply and I continued forward with an ever greater feeling of trepidation than before. I had gone no more than three more paces when my toes nudged against something in the clouded room, something soft yet strangely unyielding. I swept my foot about in a semi-circle, feeling for what I was now sure was James lying prostrate on the floor, but my senses struggled to come to terms with what I was perceiving. If James was prone in this tiny room, I would not be able to move with such freedom: He would take up most of the floor!

I reached towards where I judged the shower to be, my hand passing the point where it should have touched the glass of the screen. I leaned in, the scalding water dampening my sleeve, hunting for the valve to turn it off, but I recoiled when I touched hot, damp flesh.

“James?” I called again, but once more there was no reply. I moved my hand to the side, feeling for the spigot and twisting it. The sudden silence was deafening, interrupted only by the dripping of the last few drops hitting the shower tray and the almost imperceptible sound of the water vapour moving in the air. I could hear no breathing from another person in the room, despite what my hand had told me.

As the cloud of steam dispersed, a shape began to come into focus before me. Human shaped, but it could not be human, for it lacked movement and above all a head.

I stepped back, a reflex action that caused me to slide once more on the colourful fluid that spattered the floor tiles. It looked very much like blood, but I could not accept that. I waited, the mist thinning, the figure in the shower stall gaining clarity.

Thanks to the water, it was clean enough, though the same could not be said of the walls or floor. The body was held upright by ropes looped under its arms, affixing it to the pipework, so it sagged at the knees somewhat. As I’d mentioned, it had no head, so I could not possibly identify it. All the same, I knew who it was. I had cuddled that naked body often enough for me to recognise its shape, its secret markings. It was James and he was dead.

I turned, meaning to leave the room, my own head swimming, only to see the other head that mattered, perched upon the cistern of the toilet, its eyes wide with shock, its mouth spilling a bloody tongue from its confines, gore streaking the neck stump, hair damp and unruly. I wanted to vomit, but there was only one place to tidily do so, and I knew I could not do it with James’s dead eyes gazing impassively on. As my knees gave way and my head began to spin my last thought was to wonder how Evans had managed to get past the barricade and replace it behind him…..

 

Someone was screaming and it sounded like my voice.

Hands were touching me: I slapped at them, shaking my head from side to side in sheer panic.

Then a voice, cutting through my hysteria, one I knew only too well.

“Jeremy!  _ Jeremy _ !”

I opened my eyes, squinting against the brightness of the light. James stared at me, his eyes wide but blessedly alive, his head firmly attached. We were both in bed, dawn’s light creeping through the curtains accompanied by a rapid knocking at the door.

I gasped in breath, my throat sore. James stroked my bare arms, shushing me, his face a picture of concern.

“Who’s at the door?” I finally managed hoarsely.

“Probably the manager,” said James. “You were screaming loud enough to wake the entire floor! Hang on, I’ll send them away.”

He got out of bed, padding naked across the carpet, leaning over the chest of drawers to address whoever was on the other side. I was still too disorientated to make out what was being said but James seemed to be putting things to rights.

I lay back down on pillows that were wet with sweat, or tears, or both. My heart rattled a furious rhythm in my chest like a Keith Moon drum solo. I had never had such a vivid nightmare, not even before when I’d dreamed of Evans strangling me in bed and I was so confused I did not know what was real and what wasn’t.

James got back into bed, putting his arms around me. He smelled of sex and sweat and last night’s venison pie.

“What time is it?” I whimpered. James looked at his watch, squinting in the gloom.

“Six in the morning,” he told me.

“Which morning?”

“Sunday morning. We’re at the hotel, Jeremy.”

“Did we go out for breakfast yet? Have you had a shower?”

“No to both. It’s too early.”

He answered my questions patiently, putting the world in my head right bit by bit.

“Do you love me?” I asked tentatively.

“More than anything!” he responded warmly.

“And will you stay with me?” I begged, clutching at him. “Will you stay with me in my flat in London all week and not leave my side?”

“Of course I will,” he said. “If that’s what you want, I’ll stay with you forever!”

I pinched myself, feeling the pain shoot up my arm, and sighed contentedly. The horrors of my nightmare still lingered but James was there, alive and loyal and kind as ever.


	29. Back to Life, Back to Reality

It took a while for me to settle after the atrocity that was my nightmare, but knowing that James was to be with me in the days and nights to come I was eventually able to drop back off into a healing sleep. We lay with our lower limbs entwined, one of my hands twisted into the damp fur of his chest hair, the other settled on the place where his neck joined his shoulder, anxious to reassure myself even in sleep that his precious head was where it should be.

When we awoke, the echoes of my terrible dream had faded somewhat. James slept beside me, the nasal buzzing of his gentle snore a familiar solace. I carefully disentangled myself from his sprawling embrace and went to the bathroom, hesitating only briefly on the threshold before entering. Everything inside was as it should be, the tiles clean and sparkling with no trace of my darling’s life blood.

I relieved myself in a torrent that seemed to take an eternity before shuffling back into the bedroom. James was awake, possibly disturbed by the loudness of my stream and he smiled at me drowsily.

“And how are we now?” he asked me teasingly. “Throat a little sore, maybe? Feeling a little croaky from all the screaming?”

I picked up a pillow and threw it at him and he caught it, laughing.

“Don’t be a beast!” I berated, flopping back onto the bed and cuddling up to his languid warmth. “It was an absolutely horrid dream, I’ll have you know.”

“It certainly sounded dreadful,” he said. “You had half the hotel at our door!”

I picked up the pillow again, threatening him with it and he held up his hands in surrender, chuckling.

“Enough, Jeremy, I’ll stop! It’s just nice to see a little fire in you again.”

I subsided, secretly rather enjoying the bit of byplay. I felt invigorated and confident after the tumultuous weekend and my courage had returned with the prospect of living side-by-side with my lover for as long as I needed him.

“Are you hungry, my love?” he asked solicitously. “Shall we go in search of breakfast?”

I shook my head, keen to get back to the flat and to normality now that I knew I would not be alone. I was also excited by the idea of getting up and going to work together the following morning.

“Let’s not,” I said. “There’s no point in us staying here any longer. Why don’t we pack and go home and I’ll cook you breakfast myself.”

“Sounds perfect. Togs on then, Jezza. First one dressed gets to drive!”

 

I won the race, but I did cheat by not putting any pants on, something James was delighted to discover once we were on the road. I always forbade him from touching me while I drove so the torment was very real for both of us, the roughness of my denim stimulating me even as the knowledge of my going commando aroused him. It made the journey home fraught with sexual tension that I was determined to relieve once we reached my flat.

James, however, seemed to have other ideas….

 

“Oh, look, Jeremy! Isn’t that a kestrel?”

James pointed out of the car window at the scenery rushing by. I slowed the car to crane my neck, trying to spot the bird he’d indicated. James knew I had a bit of a soft spot for our feathered friends and nothing pleased me more than catching a glimpse of a bird of prey.

“I can’t see anything,” I complained.

“It swooped down out of sight behind that little copse,” said James. “I think it was a kestrel, but it might have been a red kite.”

“Did it have a forked tail?” I asked. “Because if it did, it was a kite.”

“I didn’t have chance to see,” admitted James. “Why don’t we pull over and have a look?”

I did so readily enough, eager to show of my bird identification skills, parking in a handy layby. The small wooded area that James had pointed out wasn’t far from the road and we approached it cautiously, not wanting to scare any wildlife.

“Which direction did it come from?” I asked James as we tramped over the rough grass.

James swung his arm vaguely at a nearby hill on the other side of the copse and I decided we would have to go through the trees to be able spot the bird. I entered the copse, James close on my heels.

Small as it was, the trees were packed closely together and the leaves were so thick it was unpleasantly dim. We soon lost sight of the road and I felt a stab of trepidation at the thought of someone lurking nearby, ready to pounce. I hesitated, wondering whether we should turn back and head for a more populated area, but my train of thought was effectively derailed by a stinging slap dealt to my rear end that made me squeal with surprise.

I whirled round, my adrenaline rising, to see James standing there, his hand still outstretched and a smirk on his face that I knew meant trouble. I placed my hands on my hips indignantly.

“James May, what was that for?” I demanded.

“That’s for being a slut with no pants on,” chortled James. “Did you really think you were going to get away with that?”

“You rascal!” I exclaimed. “Was there really any bird, or did you just invent it to get me out of the car and into the woods?”

“Oh, there was a bird,” he remarked casually. “But I’m pretty sure it was just a buzzard. Never mind that, though – you’ve got a punishment coming!”

With that, he leapt at me, his arms outstretched and a huge, wicked grin on his face. I squealed again in alarm, trying to turn and evade his grasp, but my long legs got tangled in the process and I tripped, barely keeping my balance. I heard his laugh behind me and I began to run, determined not to make it easy for him.

Twigs clutched at my hair as I darted between the trees, undergrowth snatching at my ankles. James crashed along behind me, cutting a smaller swathe through the tiny forest and thus avoiding the grabbing branches overhead. I ducked under a low hanging branch, very aware of my bottom sticking out behind me, packed into the tight denim with no pants to spoil the line. Another slap landed, catching me across my right cheek and I yelped in desperation.

“It’s no use, Jeremy,” called out James cheerfully from directly behind me. “You’re going to get a spanking one way or another!”

“What for?” I asked, trying to distract him as I made a feint sideways. He didn’t fall for it and kept pace with me easily.

“For cheating at the race and not wearing any pants!” he responded. “You’re a very naughty boy.”

A fallen log lay in our path and I thought if I could hurdle it with my longer legs it might be the delaying tactic I needed and I put a spurt into my stride. Unfortunately, I did not count on the small, snapped off branch sticking up out of the trunk and it caught on the cuff of my jeans, bringing me down in a most undignified position.

James laughed uproariously to see me topple, my feet higher than my head, my hands spread in the soft earth of the forest floor to save my face from the impact. I was stranded there, supported in a kind of push-up position, unable to turn and free my jeans from the errant twig that had been my downfall.

“Stop being such a beast and help me up!” I demanded, wriggling against my snare.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so!” giggled James. “You’re exactly where I want you, you little tease!”

I squeaked in consternation as I felt his hands go under my belly, fumbling for the button on my jeans.

“No, James, not here!” I begged. “Someone might see!”

“Nobody can see us,” he said reassuringly, undoing the button and beginning on the zip. Ignoring my struggles, he began to slowly slide my jeans down my legs, exposing me to the elements.

I knew all I had to do was say the safe word and he would stop and for a moment it hovered on the brink of being said, my teeth digging into the softness of my lower lip to form the “V” of “Volkswagen”. But as my buttocks were unveiled, the cool air hitting my spread cheeks, I relaxed, letting out a low moan.

James was right: nobody would see us. There was a certain amount of excitement attached to the possibility, though and that realisation was already making my penis stiffen. James pulled my jeans down to my knees and began to fondle me, starting at the bottom of my thighs and sliding his hand up my legs. I moaned at his touch, made all the ruder by our location. My arousal was hidden beneath me but James soon found out, his hand gliding around to encircle my hard member, teasing the head with his fingertips. He chuckled.

“I knew it, you little minx. You want this, don’t you?”

I managed a nod, my cheeks burning with the shame of my admission. It felt so good to give up control, to let him use me as he wished, because I knew that my pleasure was at the forefront of his mind and he would never let me go unfulfilled. His skill at tantalising my nerve endings was unsurpassed and he knew exactly how to stimulate my pleasure through pain without taking it too far.

He gave my erection a last little squeeze before releasing me and then to my horror I heard his footsteps moving away from me.

“Where are you going?” I asked, my voice shrill with panic.

“Patience, Jeremy,” he soothed. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just fetching a suitable implement….”

My panic rose as I heard a crackling, snapping sound, followed by the swish of something thin cutting through the air.

“What’s that?” I tried to twist to see what was happening, but it was useless. His footsteps grew louder as he approached me again, this time to hold his “implement” in front of my face. It was a long, thin twig, strong-looking for all its slenderness, still with a few leaves attached to one end.

“What do you think?” he asked gently. “Too much?”

He was giving me an opportunity to back out and I knew if I took it there would be no repercussions, no blame, no reproach. He would help me up, we might indulge in a little mutual masturbation here in the woods and it would be exciting enough, but I would feel a sense of anti-climax, of opportunity missed, of experiences untried.

I shook my head.

“Use it,” I said with a firmness that surprised me.

James squeezed my shoulder, a brief comfort before he began. The muscles in my arms twitched with the exertion of holding myself up and I wondered if I would collapse on my face once the caning had begun. I did not have long to wait long to find out.

I heard the whistling noise of the twig before I felt the pain and my reaction was loud and immediate. He hadn’t brought it down with full force, just enough for me to feel its sting, but I shrieked nevertheless, a line of fire painted onto the soft flesh of my buttocks.

He did not give me time to reflect before he dealt the next stripe and I howled at this one as I had at the first. Had he waited, I might have reacted differently, have tensed my muscles ready, but the third came close on the heels of the second. My elbows sagged, my face getting closer to the ground. I saw droplets of moisture fall on the soil and realised they were tears from my own eyes.

“Are you okay?” James asked, his voice uncertain.

“Keep going!” I snapped vehemently. “I want a full six of the best!”

James obliged, laying another two strokes on me one after another.

My wails had melded into one by this point, my back arched against the sensation. James had hesitated, but I had reached the point of no return.

“Last one,” I snarled. “Give it all you’ve got!”

James’s arm fell one last time and I cried out, as much in pleasure as in pain. My arms gave out, planting my face in the dirt, then James was at my side, helping me up, wiping the mud and tears from my face and kissing me. I kissed him back, grabbing his wrists and guiding his hands to my abused rear end, sighing as his fingers caressed the welts he had put there. My skin tingled, alive with sensation.

“Take me,” I whispered. “Here, in the mud….”

James needed no further invitation and before I knew it I was down on my knees, my hands in the dirt once more as my lover rode me to ecstasy.

 

After the initial glow had worn off and we were back in the car, I once more set about questioning my motives. I was helpless to resist James’s charms whenever he pressed his suit, but that wasn’t the problem. The kind of sex I was craving was explosive and exciting, but once it was over I felt deep shame in having enjoyed it so much. Why did I feel the need to be chastised, to give up control so completely? Was I impelled by guilt to take such punishment or was it merely a reflection of my desire to be debased? Would there come a time in which I required greater and harsher stimulus if I was to achieve the bliss I desired? I did not know the answers to any of these questions, but that didn’t stop me mulling the possibilities over in my head constantly as I drove towards London.

James had settled down in the passenger seat happily enough, untroubled by deeper doubts and I felt a stirring of irritation at the ease with which he could come to terms with his carnal nature. It was just like him to work me up into a frenzy before leaving me a spunk-sodden, fuck-drunk mess and falling easily back into his day-to-day routine as though nothing had happened. True, he was unfailingly and touchingly devoted to me in the aftermath, but the acts in which we indulged did not engender in him the same feelings of confusion and remorse that affected me so.

I glanced at the man sat next to me, who had inspired and addicted me so over the years. He was such a sexual creature, his eroticism at the forefront to such an extent that it was impossible to detach his personality from his appetite, but I would not wish to do so. It was natural for him to seek such deep pleasure by whatever means necessary – as natural as it was for some people to dine on gourmet meals or get carried away by opera music – so I knew I should not resent him for his ability to move from one encounter to another without dwelling on the rationale behind each experience. I knew I should just be thankful he chose to indulge himself with this one, lucky person.

He turned and smiled at me as I inspected him, unaware of the turmoil I was going through, and his smile was so easy and free I found myself responding almost against my will. I was powerless beneath his love: his willing toy; his slave.

“What are you thinking about so hard?” he asked and I knew I could not begin to tell him the truth.

“Just thinking about how much I love you,” I told him, and it was at least partly true.

 

We reached my flat without further incident and I cooked James the promised breakfast, determined to demonstrate the talents I possessed in the kitchen as well as in the bedroom. We spent the rest of the day lounging around watching The Great Escape and discussing how we would pitch our idea for filming the next Special in Argentina. At bed time, it was odd but thrillingly intimate having James in my flat, putting his toothbrush in the same glass that had held only mine and lining up his toiletries alongside my own. My bed was warm and comfortable and I was delighted to be sharing it with him and after lazy lovemaking it felt special to be setting my alarm clock to wake the pair of us in the morning.

Our weekdays soon settled into a natural routine. After a hard day of filming James would pick up a nice bottle of something to drink with the meal I would prepare and we would watch TV before going to bed. I washed our clothes together, enjoying seeing his flowered shirts tumbling around in the washing machine with my own and we jostled for bathroom time in the mornings, sharing the washbasin and the shower equally.

The shadow of Chris Evans faded from our lives, his menace more and more a bad dream from which I had finally awoken. My new dog was so like the previous Didier that I almost forgot that Evans had killed him and Giles’s warnings, when remembered, seemed like hysterical over-reactions. I had not spotted our tormentor since he’d disguised himself as the rude elderly waiter and I stopped analysing the appearance of each new person that I met. It was a mistake I would come to regret.

 

A week passed, then two. We spent the weekends where we wished, taking no special precautions. We received no mysterious phone calls, met no suspicious persons. I grew lazy and nonchalant, sated with sex and nice dinners, beginning to truly believe that Evans had given up on us. It wasn’t until I read the local newspaper one morning whilst waiting for James to finish shaving that reality came crashing back down in a most horrifying manner.

 

James heard the smash as I dropped my coffee cup and called out from the bathroom, inquiring if I was okay. I was unable to reply, struck dumb as I was with alarm and my lack of response brought James running.

“Jeremy, what is it?”

James grabbed my arm, his concern evident. He still had flecks of shaving foam on his chin and any other morning would have seen me wiping them tenderly off, but today was different. Without a word I turned the newspaper around, showing him the front page and he reacted with a shocked gasp.

“Oh my god! Isn’t that…?”

I nodded.

“It’s Giles. He’s killed him, James! Evans has murdered him!”

I let go, beginning to weep noisily as James snatched the newspaper from my fingers. My legs threatened to spill me onto the kitchen floor so I sat shakily on the nearest chair, clutching at the table for support.

James quickly scanned the story beneath the picture of a much younger Giles, taken from a distance as he entered Evans’s grounds. The former henchman had been found dead at a nearby railway line, apparently decapitated by the wheels of a train. Evans was quoted as being shocked and distressed and police weren’t treating the death as suspicious, but there was no way that I would ever believe that Evans had no hand in this.

“He’s killed him for talking,” I averred, completely convinced. “He knows that he spoke to us and had him done away with!”

“We don’t know that,” said James doubtfully, but I could tell he was thinking the same as me. “It says there was a large amount of alcohol in his system and he wandered onto the tracks…..”

I glared at James balefully, my tears still falling, not so much in sympathy for the turncoat goon who had warned us but for the realisation that Evans was still out there, crazed and irrational and dangerous.

“It doesn’t mean we should worry,” said James slowly. “Giles was an employee – a nobody. We’re very much in the public eye. Evans would be mad to…..” He trailed off uncertainly. We both knew that Evans was indeed mad as shit.

James folded the newspaper and dropped it decisively in the bin.

“We’d better finish getting ready for work.”

I opened my mouth to protest but James cut me off.

“Whatever Evans may or may not be planning, the general public still needs Top Gear, Jeremy. We can’t let them down.”

I knew he was right. He strode from the room to finish his ablutions and I began to clear up the shards of broken pottery from the floor.

 

It was James turn to drive that morning and he did so in silence, refusing to entertain any conversation that involved Evans. I flicked moodily through the radio stations, skipping over Radio 2 with a shudder as Evans’s voice bleated through the speakers. It was typical of the man to commit such a dastardly act then go on his radio show as though nothing untoward had happened.

My mood was gloomy as I stared out of the window, trying to think of an inoffensive topic to converse about, but all I could think of was Giles, lying dead on the railway tracks.

“Botheration!”

James’s old-fashioned exclamation dragged my thoughts from decapitation. I looked out of the window to see what had caused such a reaction.

“Bloody roadworks!” swore James, pointing at the “Diversion” sign ahead. “Now we’re going to have to drive for miles down a load of godforsaken little side roads!”

Fuming quietly, he steered the car in the direction of the arrow.

I knew the route to the Top Gear studios pretty well, plus the network of little lanes and shortcuts that surrounded it. As James drove a feeling of disquiet began to form within me as the signs seemed to be taking us further away from the roads we needed. As we travelled, the shops and houses we passed became rougher and the spelling of the graffiti became worse. My apprehension grew accordingly with the increasing shabbiness of the areas we went through.

I did not want to always be the doomsayer, the worrier, the pessimist, so I kept my mouth shut and wrung my hands against my sense of impending doom. James appeared not to notice the cars propped up on bricks with their wheels missing, or the shopping trolleys abandoned in parks: He concentrated solely on negotiating the winding side roads, his resolution unwavering.

I lost myself in the fog of despair that descended on me, staring unseeing through the windscreen at the passing deprivation. I was so immersed in the doubt that clouded my mind that I was startled when James exclaimed:

“Oh, cock!”

Despite the fact that this was James’s catchphrase on Top Gear, he very rarely spoke it in real life, so I knew something was amiss. I shook myself alert, peering through the window to see what had caused his sudden expletive.

A woman lay in the road, her blonde hair tangled and bloody, her floral dress torn and dirty. Her back was to us, so we couldn’t tell if she was conscious, but she did not stir at the sound of our approaching engine.

James had put on the handbrake and unbuckled his seatbelt before I could even react to the horrible vision. It was only the sound of his car door opening that roused me from my stupor, and I grabbed onto his arm as he prepared to exit the car.

“James, no!” I beseeched. “Don’t leave me!”

“Dammit, Jeremy, somebody needs our help!” he replied impatiently. “We can’t just leave an injured woman lying in the road!”

“Then let’s call an ambulance,” I suggested, retrieving my phone from my jacket pocket. “But don’t get out of the car!”

“I have to, Jeremy,” retorted James bravely. “She might need urgent medical assistance and I did my First Aid badge when I was in the Cubs!”

With that, he was out, striding purposefully towards the prone woman. He looked magnificent, his hair blowing in the wind, his stubborn jaw set in determination. I clutched my phone, hesitating before dialling 999 as I watched his heroic progress, my mouth slightly open with longing and sudden lust. Forcing myself to focus, I tore my attention from James’s physique and fumbled with my phone. My fingers wanted to be caressing my lover rather than the touchscreen and stupidly stumbled over the keys. As I attempted to dial the second 9, I became aware that a stiff breeze was blowing through my now open door at the same time as a large, callused hand reached through and snatched the phone from my limp grasp.

I looked up. A huge, suited man with an ugly, scarred face set in a malicious grin stared back at me from the doorway.

“Who are you?” I demanded, shocked at the rude interruption.

In reply the man merely grabbed the lapel of my jacket in his massive fist and hoisted me from my seat with shocking ease. I opened my mouth to scream but something was placed over my face, a dirty rag that reeked of chemicals and swallowed my cry of alarm even as I sucked the fumes into my lungs. I flailed against my captor, my eyes stinging with tears and my head swimming from the horrid vapours. I tried to turn my head away, but the rag went with it, stuck to my face, and as my consciousness faded I could see James struggling in the road with the injured woman, who was not injured nor was a woman but was a man in disguise clutching a can of pepper spray that he was emptying into my love’s face.

 


	30. Holding Out for a Hero

My head pounded as I regained consciousness and for a moment I could not remember where I was or what had happened. Judging by the severe nausea I was experiencing I reasoned that I had drunk heavily the night before and was suffering the aftermath. What day was it? I wondered. Did I have to go to work?

It was dark. So dark that I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or not and I had to blink several times to establish that they were. The blackness was absolute, and the realisation that I was in such an environment brought the memories crashing back. Panic held me in its icy, vice-like grip and I had to force myself to calm, to control my breathing and slow my racing heart.

I lay on a hard surface, my throbbing head gaining no comfort from anything resembling a pillow. Cautiously, I flexed my limbs, reassuring myself that I wasn’t bound in any way and proceeded to stretch my arms and legs to the side, feeling for any edges that I might tumble over. There were none and I thought I must be lying on a floor.

I sat up slowly, my arms shaking from the effort. I felt weak and ill and in no condition to go exploring but I had to discover what kind of place I was in. Listening intently for several minutes brought no intelligence of any other living being in the vicinity and I knew that I was utterly alone. Sobbing, I struggled to my feet, my outstretched hand preceding my head to ensure that I did not hit it on a low ceiling.

I began to investigate my surroundings, shuffling along with outstretched arms and feeling my way with my feet. I was in a vast, open area with a hard, level floor and a high roof. Any sounds I made were simultaneously swallowed up by the impenetrable darkness and echoed in the boundless space, my sobs and whimpers flung back at me in cruel repetition. I had no way of measuring the time it took me before I found a wall, but it seemed like an eternity. Once I had my hands against a flat surface I followed it fanatically, using its solidity to focus the runaway train of my thoughts and give me something to occupy me. I hoped I would find a doorway or a light switch but my sidling and groping continued uninterrupted.

When the lights went on it was sudden and shocking, assailing my eye sockets with an agonising intensity. Fluorescent tubes burst into life, the crippling brightness driving me to my knees with my hands to my face, a scream dragged from my arid throat. Moaning, I attempted to blink but the pain was too great and I remained there, hunched and blinded, for several minutes.

I let the light seep through my fingers, gradually becoming accustomed to the dazzling glare. I was almost afraid to look around but my curiosity was stronger than my fear.

I was in a huge room, rather like an underground car park, grey, unpainted concrete for the walls and floor. There were numerous pillars supporting the lofty ceiling, pillars I must have missed during my exploration. Far away, on the other side of the expanse, was a door, looking ridiculously small in the colossal space. I fixed my gaze on that door, waiting.

An unfathomable time passed. I wanted to approach the door but I was scared of what lay on the other side. It could be escape, or it could be more darkness, death or terror.

Eventually I got to my feet, my trembling legs feeling too weak to support me. My feet scraped against the floor as I began to limp towards the door, each step bringing an equal mixture of hope and dread. I was halfway there when it opened.

 

The first person I saw was James, and my heart leaped at the sight of him. My initial thought was that he was there to rescue me, but once my joy had subsided I saw that he was thoroughly bound and that my errant knight would not be my saviour this time. Rope encircled him many times, securing him to a sack truck rather like Hannibal Lecter. As I watched, he was tilted backwards and wheeled helplessly through the doorway.

The man transporting him was the same huge, ugly thug that had wrestled me from the car an unknowable time earlier. He was followed by another man, slighter of build but just as villainous looking, and as he neared I recognised him as the man who had acted as the decoy. He had removed the dress and the wig since then.

I wanted to race to my love but sickening dread stopped my feet. James’s face was reddened and sore looking where he had been pepper-sprayed, particularly around the eyes and a strip of silver duct tape was stuck over his mouth, but his gaze was fastened on me with concern for my own wellbeing. Stranded by my fear I could only look back at him, searching his well-loved face for signs of further injury.

The larger ruffian parked James several feet inside the door and stood to one side, his hands behind his back respectfully. The other bully boy joined him, and they waited. The door stood open, a gaping maw into the unknown and I eyed it with trepidation, measuring the distance and knowing I would never be able to beat the goons to it.

The door could have introduced anyone to the room, but of course it was Evans who entered, no disguises to hide his features, no false expression to hide his malicious delight at our capture. He stood in the doorway, regarding us gloatingly, his broad grin a travesty of happiness. I could have sworn in that moment that he cast no shadow, so diabolical did he appear to me.

“So, gentlemen,” he announced, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “It appears I have you once again at my mercy!”

It was a wholly unnecessary statement, declared solely for his own satisfaction as it was blatantly obvious that James and I knew the truth of our situation. James made a muffled noise behind his makeshift gag and Evans cupped his hand to his ear in an exaggerated listening gesture.

“What’s that, James? Are you trying to tell me something?” He laughed shrilly, the high-pitched sound rolling and echoing around the space we occupied. “Here, let me help you!”

With that, Evans reached out and dug his fingernails beneath a corner of the silver tape across James’s mouth, pausing for dramatic effect before cruelly tearing the length from my lover’s face. The noise of the tape leaving his skin was inordinately loud and James winced at the harshness of the sensation. His lips looked bruised and ragged, the skin around his mouth reddened and sore.

Evans sniggered at James’s discomfort, tossing the tape carelessly onto the floor. From where I stood I could see flecks of skin and stubble adhering to its sticky surface.

James licked his lips, attempting to restore some moisture to their parched surface.

“Speak up then, James!” urged Evans mockingly.

“Damn you to hell and back,” managed James, his voice weak and croaky.

Evans snorted, hands on hips in mock indignation.

“I’m not sure that was worth the effort, James. I’m rather sorry I took pity on you and allowed you to speak if that’s the disrespectful quality of the statements you’ll be making!”

“I want none of your pity,” muttered James sullenly, eying Evans with blatant loathing. “And you will never earn a morsel of my respect!”

Still smiling in that demonic fashion, Evans slapped James smartly around the face, the noise like a pistol- shot in its suddenness.

“Hold your tongue, Mr May, if you wish to keep it,” warned Evans pleasantly. “You’re in no position to be rude and I’m not inclined to put up with your nonsense today.”

I must have made some noise at James’s mistreatment, some involuntary sound of dismay, as it drew Evans attention from his torment to focus on me. His grin lost none of its wickedness as he contemplated me, but took on a rather more sly aspect, his eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring as I quailed beneath his gaze. He looked like a snake considering its prey.

“Ah, the lovely Jeremy,” he purred. “I can’t begin to tell you how marvellous it is to set eyes upon you again!”

He glided forward, his gaze never leaving me as he reached for my unresisting hand and raised it to his lips, laying a kiss against my knuckles.

I squirmed beneath his touch, doing my utmost to hide my revulsion, fighting the urge to snatch my hand away. I wanted to rush off and scrub the places he had touched me, to wash the vile slime of his lips from my skin, but I knew our lives might very well depend on keeping him happy.

“Do you know where we are, Jeremy?” he questioned softly, lifting my hand further and rubbing the softness of my palm against his cheek, his eyes boring deep into mine. I shook my head, steeling myself to his touch. Evans’s smile broadened and he leaned closer, his breath a vile taint on my face.

“We’re deep underground,” he whispered. “Somewhere that nobody knows about but a few of my trusted cronies. Somewhere you will never be found….”

I stifled a sob at his remark, remembering Giles’s dire warning. Evans chuckled, my distress drawing unseemly mirth from him.

“You can scream all you want to down here,” he continued, warming to his subject. “Nobody will ever hear you. You are completely in my power and if you displease me, the penalty will be harsh. Do you understand?”

I glanced across at James. His expression was grim and despite the numerous discomforts he suffered I knew if released from the bonds that cut into his flesh he would immediately turn on our captors like a tiger with no thought to his personal safety. James never faltered, never doubted: He would defend me till his dying breath. As my resolution wavered, I reminded myself of this. Could I humour this madman in front of me, live a life underground at the mercy of his sadistic whims? What life would be worth having at that price?

Evans interrupted my thoughts.

“Kiss me,” he demanded.

I shuddered at the thought. I had sucked the man’s cock and accepted it, albeit unwillingly, up my rear end, yet the thought of kissing him disgusted me even more than that. Somehow, it was far more intimate.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and readied myself for the assault of his tongue.

Nothing happened and I opened my eyes to see him glaring at me.

“I said ‘Kiss me’, not ‘Let me kiss you’!” he snarled. His fingers released my hand and wound themselves deep into the fabric of my shirtfront, binding me closer to him. “Now do as I say, or I swear on all my cars that I will kill your boyfriend…..”

I took a deep breath, leaning forward and pursing my lips. He was unbearably close – so close I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead, smell the scent of whiskey on his breath. Quickly, I brushed my puckered lips against the corner of his mouth, darting my head like a cobra’s.

Evans sneered at me.

“You call that a kiss?” he spat. “Do it properly!”

I looked across at James, immobilised with such efficiency he could not even twitch a hand to signal me. Disregarding his pain, his countenance was full of sympathy for me.

“You don’t have to do it Jeremy,” he said calmly.

“Yes he fucking does!” screeched Evans, drawing back his hand to slap my face. “Kiss me you little slut! Kiss me like you mean it!”

In a panic I did as he ordered, pressing my lips more firmly against his. He responded immediately, opening his lips under mine and sucking my tongue into his mouth. I felt my gorge rise, but fought against the feeling, working on him the best that I could. I felt no emotion for him save for the disgust and hatred I always felt, but he didn’t seem to notice and gulped greedily at me, his saliva smearing itself around my mouth. His skin and mouth felt burning hot, as if he had a fever, so hot I could imagine blisters forming where he touched me. I thought I tasted smoke and for a moment considered that he may very well be the devil.

He detached himself from my face for an instant, but it did not mean it was over: He lingered only long enough to give another order.

“Touch me….”

Then his face was back against mine, his thieving lips stealing kisses against my will and with trembling hands I tried to make myself caress him. I touched his hip, his shoulder. He thrust his groin into mine, wiggling his pelvis, grinding into me. I could barely breathe and as I gasped he mistook that for passion and used his teeth on the softness of my tongue.

My eyes were squeezed shut, but a tear managed to escape.

Evans pulled away with a ghastly slurping noise. His eyes were alight with wicked glee, on fire from the inside.

“Now,” he gloated. “Tell me you love me.”

I stared at him, trying to will myself to form the words, but my tongue felt numb as if he had some kind of anaesthetic in his spit.

“Come on!” he urged. “What does it matter? Tell me you love me and James will live!”

I continued to stare at him, but something was rising within me, building up like steam. It felt so strange that for a moment I could not discern the emotion, but then I identified it: It was defiance, with a side order of pride.

“You can force me to submit to your sexual deviations,” I told him slowly. “You can force me to kiss you and to touch you. You can even force me to say that I love you. But -- ” I leaned forward, my nose touching his. “ —you can never make it true! I could never love someone such as you.”

Evans’s face went red, a colour that clashed dreadfully with the orangey hue of his hair.

“Oh, you little whore! I will kill both of you!” he seethed, baring his teeth.

I turned my head, looking directly at James.

“I love you,” I told him, clearly and without hesitation.

James smiled.

“I love you too,” he told me.

Evans shrieked, a cheated, hollow sound of wretchedness and I felt his hand connect with my face with such force I was driven backwards, falling to the floor. My head spun from the impact and I was dazed. I tasted blood and put my hand to my face, feeling the swelling begin.

Evans loomed over me, his fists clenching and unclenching, his mad fury palpable. I smiled at him, feeling blood smearing against my teeth.

“Hit me all you want,” I said thickly. “There’s no surer way of guaranteeing that I continue to despise you!”

He took me at my word, striking me a second time as I lay there. Tears welled in my eyes, but I turned my head aside, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing them fall. The air whistled, giving me warning but not enough time, and I felt his foot jar my ribs, knocking the wind from me. I writhed on the ground, the pain pinning me down as surely as a lepidopterist’s pin would hold down a prone butterfly, but as soon as I had sufficient breath in my lungs I defied him again.

“Every blow you deal me only reminds me how very much I loathe you!” I wheezed. “And makes me love James all the more! Kill us, if that’s what you desire, for even that is preferable to a life in which we are your prisoners. I would rather suffer a thousand deaths than live one minute more in your foul presence!”

I thought Evans would succumb to a heart-attack, so profound was his rage. He was incoherent for a moment, his fists shaking wildly, his stuttering teeth chattering around the words he wished to scream and I lay back, satisfied that my actions had influenced him to such an extent. I had meant every syllable I uttered.

Taking his limbs under control, he stooped down, waving an ineffectual finger beneath my nose.

“Have it your way, bitch!” he snarled. “Die if you’d rather, but don’t make the mistake in thinking it will be an easy demise for either of you!”

He stood upright, his hands shaking as he attempted in vain to calm himself. With an impatient gesture, he beckoned to the larger and uglier of his two henchmen.

“Anderson! Fetch the Spreader, the Prober and Figger,” he ordered.

Anderson nodded and turned to leave the room, only to be stopped by Evans’s afterthought.

“Bring the Felcher, the Hanger and the Pricker too,” he told him. “Oh – and the Bummer as well. We might as well go the whole nine yards, eh? In fact, bring the Dangler, the Wanker and the Cock-Jockey while you’re at it.”

Anderson seemed like a hard-nosed bastard, so I didn’t much care for the look of sheer horror that Evans’s commands brought to his face. Being an obedient henchman, though, he did as he was told.

Evans turned to me, his good humour restored by the thought of some malicious torture.

“Notice I didn’t tell him to bring any Vaseline,” he told me with a dastardly chuckle.

I supressed a shudder at his words and struggled to sit upright. If I was to meet my end, I wanted to do it with my head held high.

Evans turned from me and strolled over to James, revelling in my love’s helplessness.

“How does it feel, James?” he asked. “Knowing that I can do what I like to your boyfriend and you can’t do a thing to stop it?”

James looked Evans straight in the eye, not flinching from his crazed stare.

“You may touch his body, Sir, but you will never touch his soul,” said James sternly. “My Jeremy is made of stronger stuff than you have ever dreamed of!”

I simpered at this praise, but Evans snorted, unimpressed.

“I’m not interested in his soul, just his asshole!” he quipped, but James raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Then why try and force him to declare his love?” he inquired. “You know you want to break his spirit and you’re frustrated beyond belief that you cannot do so!”

With a cry of fury, Evans slapped James viciously across the face, forcing the back of his head to rebound off the metal of the sack truck he was fastened to. James laughed hollowly.

“What a brave fellow you are, Evans: Striking a bound man! Do you take pleasure in tormenting kittens also?”

“Silence!” screamed Evans. “Or I swear on my cars that I will – “

His tirade was brought to an abrupt halt by a distance crash, followed by an agonised scream. There was silence for a moment as we all listened, but no further sounds were forthcoming.

“What the fuck was that, Barker?” demanded Evans of the other goon. Barker shrugged and cast his eyes nervously towards the door.

“I almost thought it sounded like Anderson, sir,” he replied. “If Anderson were ever to scream, which I can’t imagine.”

“Well go and find out what’s going on,” ordered Evans. “The wretched man probably dropped something on his foot. Maybe the Diddler, that’s heavy.”

Barker wrung his hands.

“I don’t believe you told him to bring the Diddler, sir,” he stammered, clearly uneasy about investigating the source of the screams

“I wouldn’t argue with him if I were you,” broke in James. “After all, look what he did to  _ Giles _ !”

I expected further uproar from Evans at this accusation, but instead he smirked smugly.

“Quite right,” he purred. “Giles was a traitor and a spoilsport and he well deserved his  _ accidental _ death….”

Barker went pale and exited the room, Evans’s mocking laugh following him as he closed the door behind him.

I weighed up my options: With both henchmen absent, I only had Evans to conquer should I decide to make a break for it. If I could subdue him, I’d be able to release James from his bondage and the two of us would theoretically be able to escape, but I had no idea what lay between us and freedom. What labyrinth of passages could we expect beyond the door? What devious traps or obstacles?

Evans regarded me with his lizard-like gaze, as always seeming to be able to read my thoughts.

“Don’t think about tackling me,” he advised. “Even if you were able to vanquish me – which I highly doubt! – I have many other henchmen in the complex. Far too numerous for you to evade. Abandon your hope now, Jeremy – there is none for you to cling to.”

At his words, a loud scream reverberated around the walls, and I thought for a second that it came from me, but even as my hand went to my mouth to quench the sound I saw both James and Evans turn towards the door.

“What  _ is _ that?” queried James. “What have you got running loose out there? A bloody tiger?”

Evans shook his head, perhaps unaware that he had backed away a few steps.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he admitted. There was fear in his voice and the sound of it brought me unexpected strength.

“Why don’t you go and investigate?” I suggested, unable to hide the smirk in my voice.

I steeled myself for a volatile reaction but none was forthcoming. Evans was terrified. He shook his head vigorously.

“Why don’t you let me loose?” urged James, laughing insincerely. “I’ll protect you!”

“Shut up!” squealed Evans. “It’s the BBC, I know it is! They’ve come to get me! Which one of you is wearing a wire, dammit? I knew I should’ve had you strip-searched the second we had you!”

He rounded on James.

“It’s you, isn’t it, May? You’ve got a tracking device somewhere, haven’t you?”

James shook his head, a look on his face approaching pity.

“You’re insane, aren’t you?” he muttered. “I could almost feel sorry for you if it weren’t for what you’ve put us through….”

Near panic, Evans rushed to the door and locked it with trembling hands. Distant screams and howls continued to echo through the unseen corridors beyond, chilling in their intensity. For a moment I could almost imagine some kind of minotaur ripping its way through Evans’s staff, on its way to ravage our flesh.

Evans snatched a walkie-talkie from his belt and barked into it.

“Anderson? Barker? Where are you? What’s going on?”

There was no reply but for a sudden silence that befell the space outside. Somehow, the cessation of shrieks was more eerie than what had preceded, as we now had no idea how close the cause of it was.

Evans whimpered, dropping the walkie-talkie from his nerveless fingers where its black shell smashed on the concrete floor.

“How could you do this to me?” he moaned. “How could you betray me?”

James snarled an ironic laugh, his face livid with the injustice of Evans’s statement.

“After all you’ve done to us, you dare to ask us that? Damn you to Hell, you bastard! I hope whatever is out there rips you apart from the inside, starting at your asshole!”

Evans roared back, shaking his fist in James’s face.

“If I’m to die now, I’m taking you both with me!” he vowed. “This place is rigged to self-destruct if anything happens to me!”

He cackled triumphantly, an annoying noise that was cut off abruptly by the resounding clang at the metal door. Evans swung round frantically, gibbering.

“What the fuck was that?” he screamed, just as another metallic crash resounded. This time, the door visibly shook under the strain of whatever assailed it.

Evans began to weep hysterically, running to hide behind James’s sack trolley in the most cowardly fashion.

“I’m sorry, James,” he stuttered. “I’m sorry for everything! Please protect me, I beg of you!”

“I can’t do anything tied up like this,” pointed out James calmly and at that Evans began to tear at the ropes binding him. His fingers were clumsy in his terror, plucking at the knots ineffectually. With an effort, I struggled to my feet, determined to aid with my love’s release if only for his sake. My legs were unsteady beneath me, but I toiled on bravely, hauling myself towards James. Even as I reached him I knew it was too late: The door crashed again, a monstrous sound, and a bulge appeared in the thick metal surface.

Evans abandoned his task and fell to the floor, cowering.

“We’re doomed!” he announced, covering his face and sobbing.

I flung my arms around James, the roughness of his bonds chafing at my skin as I laid my face against his chest.

“Oh, James….” I sighed. “What is to become of us?”

“Have faith, my love,” soothed James, his voice making love to my ear drums. “It will all be over soon, one way or another.”

We kissed as the door flew from its hinges and clattered to the floor, our lips sealing our love even in the face of our fate. Evans screamed at our feet, unregarded in our passion. In my peripheral vision, I spied a dark figure lurking in the doorway, its face a vague blur like smoke.

“Argh! It’s a shadow being!” wailed Evans. “Woe betide us!”

James detached his mouth from mine and I watched it curve into a smile. Hope surged in my breast.

“No it’s not,” he said. “Tell him who it is, Jeremy!”

I turned and examined the presence in the doorway, the slope of its shoulders and the angle of its legs sparking recognition. I gasped.

“Who is it?” whispered Evans, clutching at my ankles. “Is it Lucifer Himself, come to take me back to Hell?”

I cleared my throat and spoke.

“Some say he was a Special Forces driving instructor in the British Army, and that he once worked for Hornby as a brand manager of the  _ Scalextric _ slot car division. All we know is, he used to be called the Stig!”

Ben Collins strode forward, peeling the black balaclava from his face. He looked handsome and rugged in the fluorescent lights, his hair tousled heroically, and despite his treachery many years ago I instantly forgave his betrayal, so relieved was I to see him.

“Jeremy. James.” He nodded curtly at each of us in greeting before producing a large knife from a sheath in his belt and sawing at James’s bonds. Within moments, James was free, his arms immediately seeking my frame in an embrace.

“Are you all right, darling?” he murmured, wiping blood from my bruised lips with his tender fingertips. The former Stig regarded us approvingly, re-sheathing his knife.

“I always knew you two were made for each other,” he commented, slapping James manfully on the back.

“Oh, Ben!” I breathed. “However can we thank you?”

“The only reward I need is seeing you two safe and sound,” said Ben, saluting us. “Your nightmare is over, gentlemen!”

James and I applauded, overcome with hero-worship. Evans burbled at our feet, unintelligible in his panic. Ben sneered at him.

“And as for you, Evans….!” He remarked in disgust.

“What are you going to do to me?” bleated Evans.

“Not what I would like to do,” said Ben. “Which is to give you a taste of your own medicine! Unfortunately, my orders are to take you to a secret location, where you will be given  _ help _ .” He uttered the last word scornfully, making his feelings on Evans’s fate clear.

Turning away slightly, Ben spoke into a small mic clipped to his black jumper.

“Target acquired,” he reported. “He’s not putting up a fight. Over.”

With a crackle, a small tinny voice could be heard emanating from his earpiece.

He listened intently before replying.

“Affirmative, sir. Send in the professionals. Our operatives are relatively unharmed and could probably do with no more medical assistance than a nice cup of tea. Over and out.”

There were scuffling footsteps outside and a squad of men wearing white coats appeared, looking grim. One held a large syringe, another what appeared to be a straitjacket.

“He’s all yours, boys,” said Ben, waving towards Evans, and the men began to advance.

Working swiftly, the closed in around their prey. Evans screamed and struggled only briefly before he was restrained, the injection administered in his left buttock seeming to calm him almost immediately. At a signal from their leader, Evans was lifted bodily from the ground and secured to the sack trolley that had previously held James.

“What will become of him?” asked James as Evans was wheeled away. “And how did you find us? Who sent you?”

Ben held up a hand.

“All questions will be answered later, gents,” he promised. “In the meantime – let’s get you that cup of tea!”

  
  



	31. Redemption

Ben lead us from the bunker, along many winding corridors that grew steeper as we reached the surface. Realising how deep our prison had been, and how close it had been to becoming either our dungeon or our grave, I could not help but shudder.

James and I limped along, weak and injured as we were, but the mighty Collins was patient with us, waiting at each turn, scanning the distance ahead for any threats. I cannot speak for James, but Ben’s presence was unutterably comforting.

Along the way, we encountered many of our fallen foe. Evans’s vile henchmen littered the corridors like human waste, some bruised and groaning where they lay, others twisted and bloody, bent out of all recognition, having breathed their last. I tried to feel compassion for the loss of life, but could not: Had Evans had his way, they would have been complicit in our fate.

Finally, a door opened that appeared like any of the others we had passed, only this one symbolised so much more in our journey: This was the final door to our freedom.

I fairly leapt outside, despite my weakness, dragging James with me. The sun was weak and half-hidden behind thin grey clouds, but I had never witnessed a sight more glorious. I took deep breaths of the fresh air, clutching at James’s hand as though he were saving me from drowning.

“Isn’t it marvellous?” I murmured.

“Indeed it is,” he sighed.

Slowly, I became aware of others around us. Ben stood at a respectful distance, giving us our space, but beyond him were cars parked, people standing beside them. An awed hush had descended, and I found myself trembling with gratitude as I recognised many of our crew members who had come to our aid.

Suddenly, a car door flew open and a small figure barrelled out, his fringe flopping as he bounded towards us with unquenchable enthusiasm.

“Hamster!” exclaimed James, and Hammond yelped with excitement as he fairly threw himself at us.

“Hooray! Hooray!” bawled Hammond, nearly bowling us over. “You’re alive!”

James laughed.

“Yes, we are!” he bellowed. “Now calm yourself, you young scallywag, before you knock us both for six!”

Hammond disengaged himself from us, contenting himself with scurrying round and round us like a rambunctious puppy.

James and I regarded him fondly, so absorbed in his behaviour we scarcely noticed the other figure approaching.

“Jeremy! James!”

It was Andy Wilman.

“Andy! You splendid fellow.” James released my hand and grabbed one of Andy Wilman’s in both of his, pumping it up and down in a fervent handshake. “I know you must have tracked us down and saved us, but for the life of me I can’t imagine how you did.”

Andy smiled at us beatifically.

“Of course I tracked you both down,” he said. “Couldn’t have two of my stars doing a disappearing act half way through filming a series!”

“Well don’t keep us in suspense, man. How did you do it?” demanded James.

Andy Wilman shrugged.

“Simple, really,” he told us. “After last time, I had all three of you implanted with tracking devices. When you didn’t turn up for work this morning, I asked Richard where you both might be. He didn’t want to say anything, but after I bribed him with some sweets he spilled the beans. So I contacted Ben, and the rest is history.”

He beamed at us, somewhat smugly I felt. James and I exchanged glances. We’d been implanted with tracking devices all this time?

“How….?” I uttered, confused.

Andy Wilman smiled.

“The Director General gave the okay. We drugged your morning biscuits with tranquilisers, then when you were out for the count, injected a small microchip into your buttocks.” Andy Wilman slapped his own arse to demonstrate. “I wanted to tell you, of course, but we thought it best if you didn’t know. That way, you couldn’t tell anything to Evans under duress and he wouldn’t expect the cavalry to show up.”

Andy Wilman looked extremely pleased with himself, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole thing. I had no recollection of being tranquilised, but then I supposed I wouldn’t.

“Er….well…thank you, I suppose,” muttered James. “Will you, uh, be removing the devices now?”

Andy Wilman laughed.

“Oh, probably not,” he said. “Anyway, are you ready to leave? We have a car waiting.”

After such an ordeal, I felt physically and mentally drained, and quite unable to deal with the glut of information I was suddenly privy to. Feeling faint and confused, and a bit hungry, I allowed Andy Wilman to direct us to the waiting limo.

Just as I was about to enter the luxurious interior, I spotted Ben Collins disappearing into the back of a battered old van.

“Wait!” I exclaimed. “Ben…. I wanted to thank him….”

Andy Wilman laid a gently restraining hand on my arm.

“Be still, Jeremy,” he advised. “Let him slip away quietly. He doesn’t like to make a big fuss.”

At that point Ben emerged from the back of the van riding a tiger with fireworks strapped to it, whilst nearby speakers blared “Holding Out For a Hero” by Bonnie Tyler. The tiger reared with a majestic roar as sparklers and rockets exploded from its flanks, nearly setting alight to the 21-Gun Salute nearby, and with a wave, Ben disappeared into the night.

“Very well, then,” I sighed. “If that’s what he wants. I only hope I get to thank him at a later date.”

“I’m sure once he’s cured world hunger and stopped all wars he’ll be back and you can thank him then,” said Andy Wilman reassuringly.

Unable to quarrel any longer, I collapsed into the welcoming leather-upholstered womb of the limo.

 

The ride home was a blur. I slept through most of it, waking briefly only to nibble at few dozen oysters and to sip at a flagon of champagne.

James soothed me as I sweated and moaned through a parade of vivid and pornographic nightmares, restrained me as I shrieked and flailed through some more, laughed when I muttered something about Marmite during some weird dream about kangaroos giving squirrels rides for money on Tuesdays.

When we arrived home, he tried not to wake me as he carried me into our cosy little love nest, but of course he has a bad back and I’m far too heavy so after about 10 minutes of grunting and heaving I got up and walked in.

Everything looked unreal – like our sumptuously decorated flat was merely a backdrop to a play, and the windows merely cleverly painted  _ trompe-l'oeil _ . Had it really been so short a time since we were last here? In Evans’s godforsaken dungeon, I had thought I’d never see it again, and I walked around the rooms in a daze, touching the walls and furniture to reassure myself of their reality.

Eventually, James managed to coax me into bed. After all the sleeping I’d done in the car I thought I wouldn’t be able to rest any further, but to my surprise I was soon snoring soundly in the safe circle of James’s arms.

  
  


I would like to say that life returned to normal with the beast metaphorically slain, but of course it didn’t. How could one recover from such an ordeal?

Ashamed though it made me, I was a mere nervous shadow of my former self. I left the house only to go to work, and then I required an armed escort. I scrutinised everybody I met, looking for the tell-tale spark of ginger that would reveal Evans in disguise. I frequently pulled stranger’s beards, believing them to be false, and poked at women’s bosoms, convinced of the same thing.

After the seventh such incident, the police having been called, I ceased all contact with the outside world. The curtains in our flat remained closed constantly, and every knock at the door was a potential attacker. James did all our shopping online, and when the delivery man arrived I would squat behind the sofa, quaking, holding a cosh, until he had left.

James was patient at first. He bore without complaint the bruises I inflicted in my sleep as I fought off Evans again and again in the darkened plane of my dreams. He endured the demands I made that he checked under the bed and in the wardrobe before we retired for the night, and even provided me with the cosh I would clutch when I felt insecure. He sighed somewhat when I entreated him to accompany me to the toilet every time I needed a wee or a poo, but sat on the edge of the bath engaging me in conversation whilst I evacuated nevertheless.

After a while, however, I sensed a weariness in him that he tried to hide from me. We hadn’t made love since we’d escaped Evans’s clutches, and though he swore he didn’t mind and that he’d wait until I was ready to resume normal fornicating activities, I had to admit that I was hurt when I caught him in the box-room furtively rubbing one off as he leafed through a copy of Auto Trader.

I ran from the room wailing. The flat wasn’t very large so he had no difficulty catching up with me in the living room, where I flung myself on the sofa.

“Jeremy….” He pleaded, tucking his still engorged member back into his jeans with some difficulty and struggling with the fly.

“Leave me be!” I howled. “Go back to your cheap hatchbacks and your slutty coupes!”

James slumped down on the chesterfield next to me. I moved the coffee table to one side with my foot to give us some room.

“Look, I’m sorry, Jeremy, truly I am…” he sighed. “But it hasn’t been easy for me you know….I don’t want to rush you into anything you’re not ready for, but I’m a sexual being and I have needs……”

I peeked out from between my fingers. James looked forlorn as he sagged against the sofa arm, his tousled hair swept back from his forehead, his jeans still bulging beneath his belt, his fingers stained with ink. He shook his head slowly.

“I love you more than anything, you fool,” he whispered. “But since we got back from Evans’s dungeon yesterday you’ve been a mere shell of the man I adore. I want our lives back. I want  _ you _ back.”

He stood. Panicking, I flung myself at his legs, clutching at his knees.

“Wait! Where are you going! Don’t leave me, James! Don’t leave me alone in this hell! I didn’t mean it! I’ll do anything you want! Anything!” Awkwardly I began fumbling with my belt one-handed, unwilling to release him in case he fled. “We can do it if you want to James, we can make love if you want!  _ Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! _ ”

There was an awkward silence before James gently prised me from his legs.

“Jeremy, we don’t have to do anything yet. I’m not leaving, so don’t quote any more Wuthering Heights. It’s unbecoming. I’m only going into the next room to make a phone call.”

I craned my neck to look up at him, dashing manly tears from my lashes.

“Who are you phoning?” I whimpered.

James smiled gently at me, a reassuring expression that warmed my heart.

“I’m going to help us,” he said. “Trust me.”

 


	32. Mad World

I sat in an undignified heap on the living room rug and listened as James made his phone call in the next room. Though I strained my ears, I was unable to make out any of the conversation, but could detect the earnestness of his tone. I fought the urge to wring my hands as I waited, reminding myself of the conversation we’d had many chapters ago in Evans’s mansion:

_ “We just have to hope that Evans keeps his word,” said James grimly. “Now listen to me Jeremy: We are going to get through this, you hear me? It may mean having to do some unpleasant things, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, you have to trust me. Do you trust me, Jeremy?” _

_ “Implicitly,” I told him, wiping tears from my lashes. _

Remembering that conversation from Chapter 18 I rose from where I cowered and perched myself on the edge of the sofa. We had been through so much in the last 13 chapters and never once had James let me down. I had to trust.

 

When James returned I was calmer, but was anxious to find out what had transpired. I raised my eyebrows inquisitively but James wagged an admonishing finger at me.

“No, no, Jeremy,” he said. “Patience. All will become clear.”

We waited perhaps an hour, but it felt longer. James made a cup of tea and attempted conversation but no topic was able to draw me in. I trusted that whatever he was planning would help us both, but that didn’t stop me from worrying: As James had often delightfully demonstrated, you sometimes had to be cruel to be kind. Tough love, they called it. The thought of it sent a shiver down my spine that was both pleasant and awful at the same time.

Finally a knock at the door signalled an end to my wait.

On reflex, I flung myself from the sofa to flee behind a door where I could watch proceedings through a crack by the hinge. James opened the front door only the tiniest bit and had a brief conversation with whoever was out there. Something changed hands, something shiny that James pocketed deftly before shaking hands and bidding farewell to our visitor.

Like a shy hamster emerging from a pile of shredded paper, I cautiously peeped around my door.

“Who was that?” I quavered.

James smiled, and the satisfaction on his face immediately quelled my worst fears.

“That, my dear Jeremy, was Andy Wilman, and he’s brought something for us. Well, more for you, actually.”

A present? I stifled a squeal of excitement.

“What is it?”

James pulled a key fob from his pocket from which was suspended one, lone, shining key.

“A car! Oh, my very favourite thing! How did you know?”

I reached out to grab at the key but James swiftly snatched it back out of reach.

“Not so fast!” he warned. “It’s only on loan. We’re using it to take a little trip. And, Jeremy…?”

“Yes, James?”

“Sometimes in life we have a favourite thing. Sometimes, someone does something nasty to spoil that favourite thing for us and we don’t look at it the same way again. But I believe when that happens we have to reclaim that favourite thing and exorcise the memories of the nasty thing so that the favourite thing becomes our favourite again. Do you understand?”

“No!” I laughed. A glint of sunlight stole through the closed curtains and reflected from the key he held, hypnotizing me.

James sighed.

“I can see it’s no use talking to you when you’re like this,” he muttered with resignation. “Very well. Go on outside and see what this key fits.”

So enthralled was I by the aura of this mystery key that for the first time in a day I gave no thought to what was outside the door, merely flung it open to survey my prize.

A wave of feelings washed over me as I regarded the Lexus LFA parked by the kerb. It seemed to glow in the warm afternoon light, sleek and perfect and somehow sentient.

It had always been my favourite car on Top Gear. Even now, I could remember my review:

_ “This is not a car that shouts or barks or growls. It howls. Up there, on the moors, it sounded otherworldly. Like a werewolf that had put its foot in a gin trap.” _

I’d given it 4 out of 5 stars because of the £336,000 price tag, but in my heart of hearts it had always been The One.

And then Evans had raped James over the bonnet of one before my unwilling eyes.

I shuddered, torn. I was vaguely aware of James at my side, watching my reactions carefully, but I couldn’t process his presence just yet.

Slowly, I ventured forward until I was at the side of the beast. I was in awe of its beauty and grace. Even stationary, with its engine off, it seemed to thrum with barely supressed power. I touched it. It felt warm and alive beneath my hand. I needed to get in, to slide the key into the welcoming depths of its ignition and feel it spring into action beneath my touch. But could I? What would I see once I was seated behind its wheel, looking out through the windscreen? The road ahead? Or James’s agonized face?

There was only one way to find out.

Feeling braver than I had in weeks, I opened the door and climbed in. There was something cathartic about seating myself in its depths. I felt as though in taking control of the car I would be able to take control of my life again.

The passenger door opened and James slid in beside me, the door snicking closed behind him. We sat in silence for a while, my hands caressing the steering wheel with a lasciviousness I usually reserved for the body of my lover.

When James broke the silence, I did not jump or shriek as I may have done earlier.

“How does it feel?” he asked.

I turned to look at him. He was there – sat at my side where he should be, not flung over the bonnet to be abused.

“It’s like coming home,” I admitted. But the analogy didn’t seem right. I elaborated. “It’s like sinking into a warm bath wearing your most comfortable pair of old slippers, and the bath is also full of feathers and those fish that nibble you, but these ones have been trained to suck cock whilst doing shiatsu.”

He smiled, patting my arm.

“Good man,” he commented. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get going!”

 

I drove. With every mile the Lexus carried me, another piece of Evans’s oppression seemed to break away. I imagined his evil like a filthy aura that, cling though it might, could not compete with the speed and the power I commanded. It was swept away into the slipstream like greasy smoke, pathetic and weak in our wake.

I laughed as I drove, tears streaming down my face unchecked. I wound down the windows and breathed deep of the air as it rushed by. I wanted to stick my head out like a dog and feel it buffet my cheeks.

“Poowwwweeeeerrrrr!” I yelled as I put my foot down.

I don’t know how long I drove before I could contain myself, smooth my hair, dry my eyes. Slowly I put the windows back up, the howling wind made quiet behind the glass.

James had said not a word during the entirety of my transformation, merely allowing me to traverse it as I saw fit, but now that I was cleansed I wanted to connect with him again.

“So. Where shall we go?” I asked casually. My voice sounded normal again, its familiar booming tenor.

“Ah. Well. That’s another thing.”

He sounded uncomfortable and I glanced at him sharply.

“Spit it out, James,” I demanded, my eyes narrowed.

“Best if I don’t tell you yet. Best if you just drive. I’ll tell you where to go.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but then remembered what I had previously remembered at the flat from Chapter 18.

_ Implicitly _ .

I shut my mouth again. He had made the right decision in procuring the Lexus for me. No doubt he would be right again before the day was out.

 

We drove for hours, James directing me where needed. The roads were unfamiliar, though the scenery was pretty. Wherever we were going, it was remote.

After what seemed like an age, James finally had me steer the car onto a narrow paved road that was more like an incredibly long driveway that wound, snake-like, through the countryside. There were trees ahead, thick enough to block whatever it was we approached, and I began to feel some trepidation despite my trust.

The trees thinned and the Lexus crawled to a halt.

Before us, incongruous in the vastly empty surroundings was a building. A high wall surrounded it, topped by spikes and barbed wire. The gates in our path were formidable, but what caught my attention was the sign above it:

Arched across the gates was a rainbow, with cartoon clowns either end of it preparing to plunge custard pies into each other’s faces. Emblazoned across the rainbow were the words “Russ Abbot’s Madhouse!”

I turned to James, agog.

He nodded.

“Yes, Jeremy,” he confirmed. “This is where Evans is now.”

 

I suspect that James had anticipated some kind of argument, that he’d have to coax me in, but that was the Jeremy from many miles ago.

Without hesitation I slipped the Lexus into first and eased towards the gates.

There was an intercom on a stick near the main gate, the button humorously fashioned to resembled a breast, but I didn’t even have time to press the nipple before the gates swung ponderously open.

“They’re expecting us,” said James.

I nodded. In all honesty I hadn’t been surprised: Gates opening before me had become part of the VIP treatment I expected in everyday life.

I cruised between the gates, coming to a halt as another pair of equally large ones reared into view. I waited as the first set closed behind me, clanging shut with finality, before the ones in front could open.

“Good security,” pointed out James.

Two burly men in brass buttoned security uniforms waved us through the second set of gates, one of them consulting a clipboard, the other peering into the car as we passed. The building before us was a huge Victorian building in sand coloured stone, its many windows barred.

I parked the Lexus in the spacious car park, reluctant to leave in in the midst of the many inferior motors that surrounded it. It shone like a jewel against the shoddy workmanship of the everyday estate cars and commonplace hatchbacks.

I would have been lying if I had said I didn’t feel a certain amount of trepidation, but to my own surprise the dread wasn’t as great as I would have expected. I felt as though the Lexus had imbued me with some borrowed strength, some confidence to deal with the confrontation ahead.

James took my hand as we approached the front doors, and I grasped his fingers gratefully despite my newfound courage. I appreciated his support and relished the feel of his warm skin. We paused outside the main doors, exchanging glances before we stepped o’er the threshold.

“Ready?” he asked simply. I nodded. We entered.

 

The foyer was a colossal spectacle of creamy marble, high ceilings and skilfully wrought carvings. Huge oil paintings of Russ Abbot and Bella Emberg graced the walls, in their roles of Cooperman and Blunderwoman respectively, whilst smaller paintings depicting the likes of Les Dennis and Dustin Gee flanked them. Our footsteps echoed as we walked towards the reception desk where a lithe, blonde woman in her fifties waited. Her long straight hair and well-aged face looked vaguely familiar.

As we neared, she cleared her throat and launched into a welcoming spiel that sounded as though it had been oft repeated and learned by heart.

“Gentlemen! Welcome to the Madhouse!” she intoned with manic cheer. “You don’t have to be mad to be committed here – but it helps!!!”

You could almost hear the exclamation marks at the end of her sentences.

“Er, hello,” said James. “We’re here to – “

“Oh, I know why you’re here!” she laughed, displaying a set of large horsey-looking teeth. “You two are the talk of the wards at the moment.”

“Oh!” James looked slightly taken aback. “Really?”

“Oh, yes.” Her smile diminished a notch as she cast a compassionate glance towards me. “You must have been through a dreadful time!”

“Well, yes, Miss…uh…”

The woman pointed to the nametag pinned to her bosom, looking slightly put out.

“Rice. Ms A Rice. I used to be on television….” She trailed off wistfully. “But that was a long time ago. Anyway – enough about me. Let’s get you started!”

From beneath the desk she produced several sheets of closely-typed paper which she lay before us. A pen appeared in her hand.

“If you’re going to enter the wards, you’ll need to sign the confidentially agreement and the liability waiver.”

“Whatever for?” exclaimed James, squinting at the pages. I put on my reading spectacles and nudged him to one side.

“There are a lot of famous and once-famous people in here,” Ms Rice informed us. “Some only come here at weekends, but others have been committed indefinitely. Whatever their situation, these are celebrities, and one day they expect to resume their careers. They can’t very well do that with the taboo of madness hanging over their heads.”

“Isn’t the word ‘mad’ very un-PC?” ventured James. “Don’t you prefer the term ‘mentally hilarious’ or something?”

“Oh, no,” said Ms rice. “We’re very old fashioned here. These people are stark raving bonkers.”

“I see. And what about the liability waiver?”

“It’s highly likely you’ll see some sights you may find disturbing, and probably hear some offensive or deeply unfunny jokes. We can’t be held responsible for any mental anguish you might undergo in the course of your visit. These are sick people with warped minds and there is some seriously outdated humour to deal with on many wards.”

“Oh, I see.”

We both signed the forms, and then the visitors book. I tried to read some of the names in that, but she whisked it away before I could properly peruse it.

We were handed matching lanyards with laminated Visitor’s Badges suspended from them. My palms were moist as I hung mine around my neck and even the cheerful efficiency of Ms Rice had little effect on the beating of my heart. To distract myself, I tried to guess what the A in her name stood for. Did she look like an Angela or an Annabelle?

Once the red tape had been dealt with to her satisfaction, we were off. As she emerged from behind her desk I noticed she wore a tight-fitting jumpsuit that was totally inappropriate for a woman of her years, but she bounded forward with the energy of a woman half her age.

“Come along!” she trilled, and set off.

 

We advanced up a wide marble staircase at a fair clip, James and I fairly huffing to keep up. She peered over her shoulder to fling back chatty remarks to us as we went but most of the time she was so far ahead all we saw was a view of her ample bottom encased in lycra.

Music played from speakers placed out of reach high on the walls. I was not surprised to recognise the tune of Russ’s number 7 hit “Atmosphere”, a dreadful reminder of 1984, made somehow all the more ghastly by the fact that it was played in muzak form.

Ms Rice – Anna, maybe? – stopped to let us catch up. I glanced along a corridor as we caught our breath. There were ladders and scaffolding and tarpaulin hung over doorways.

“What’s going on there?” I asked, more as a way of delaying our host whilst I regained my composure than out of any interest.

Ms Rice’s face took on a grim expression.

“Oh, we’re extending the Jimmy Saville Ward,” she said, her voice filled with distaste. “We’ve had quite an influx in recent years of celebrity paedos, and the ward didn’t have enough space to deal with them all.”

A man in a white coat walked past whistling, holding a life-size inflatable doll wearing a school uniform in one hand and a cattle-prod in the other. He nodded at us cheerfully before disappearing behind one of the tarpaulin door covers.

“What kind of treatment do they receive there?” asked James, his voice filled with horrified fascination.

Ms Rice shrugged.

“Chemical castrations. Aversion therapy. All very unpleasant, I believe.”

As if to underline her statement, a tortured scream reverberated down the corridor. Ms Rice tutted.

“The sooner they replace the soundproof doors, the better,” she observed, before starting off down the corridor again. “It’s ironic though,” she continued, glancing over her shoulder. “The ward is named after Jimmy Saville not because of his transgressions during life, but because he donated the money for it many years ago. Wonder if he expected to be incarcerated there at some point?”

We continued walking, occasionally breaking into a jog when her pace became too quick for us. We passed many doors, each with ward names emblazoned above them in incongruous bubble writing, the kind used by children on posters and school projects in the 80s.

I made note of the names as we went: The Krankies Ward, the Jim Davidson Ward, The Stan Boardman Ward.

I wondered if they were named after people who had donated money, or whether they were named after the kind of people in each ward? Was the Jim Davidson Ward for drunken wife-beaters, for instance?

I opened my mouth to ask this question, but Ms Rice had come to an abrupt halt, James and I nearly crashing into her back. She turned to us, her face very stern.

“Mr Evans is currently residing in the Michael Barrymore Ward,” she informed us, her voice quiet. “He’s only just begun therapy, so he’s far from stable. For this reason, you will have to observe him from behind a 2 way mirror, because we have no idea what effect it would have upon him if he were to see you. Do you understand?”

I nodded. I had no desire for Evans to see us.

“Very well,” said Ms Rice and pressed an intercom button by the door.

“Password?” crackled a voice from the speaker.

“Awight?!” barked Ms Rice, quoting Barrymore’s catchphrase.

A buzzer sounded, and the door mechanism clicked as it unlocked. Ms Rice pushed the heavy door open and nodded a greeting to the burly man dressed in scrubs that stood on the other side.

“This is Klaus,” she informed us. “He’s Mr Evans’s assigned worker, and he’ll take care of you from here on.”

Flashing us a bright smile, she started off back down the corridor.

 

Klaus was a huge man with a scarred face, and I shuddered at the sight of him as he reminded me of one of Evans’s henchmen. Placing his finger to his lips he gestured us forward through the door. We shuffled into the ward, remaining silent as instructed. We were in some kind of holding area away from the main ward, and could hear a TV blaring somewhere inside.

Klaus quickly directed us to a door off to one side, and we slipped through it. He closed the door behind us, and only then did he speak.

“This room is soundproofed,” he told us, “so you don’t have to worry about him hearing us.” He waved toward the glass wall on the other side of the room. “Go ahead and look.”

James and I advanced towards the mirror. Through it, we could see a collection of men sitting on plastic chairs watching tv. I recognised many of the faces, but of course I signed the confidentiality agreement so I’m not allowed to tell you who I saw.

In their midst was Evans, securely trussed in a straitjacket, his head lolling to one side. His glasses were crooked and he drooled as he started vacantly into space.

“He’s heavily sedated at the moment,” Klaus said behind me. “When he was admitted he was extremely hostile and aggressive, so we tranquilised him and he seemed to calm down, but then someone changed the channel to Dave and there was a repeat of Top Gear on…... He began to masturbate so violently he drew blood, so we had to sedate him further and put the jacket on him.”

Looking at our vanquished foe like that, chemically and physically restrained, my fear for him seem to drain away like petrol being syphoned from a car by a thief. I had thought him a monster, and though he had indeed behaved monstrously, he was but a man as I was.

I wanted to ask how long he would be held, and what treatment he would undergo, but words failed me as I beheld his helplessness. Unaware of my internal struggle, Klaus continued to speak.

“He’s able to broadcast his breakfast show from within the grounds using the facilities we have here – it’s very important that nobody notices the absence of a public figure, except in extreme circumstances. When he’s recording he’s strictly supervised and drugged to ensure he acts appropriately.”

“You see, Jeremy?” said James softly from my side. “He’s no threat to us now. They can control him and cure him here. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

We stood in silence watching Evans as he slumped in his chair. He remained still and silent, apart from the occasional twitch. I watched him until my legs began to ache and my eyes were sore, then turned to Klaus and asked him to let us out.

Klaus obliged, ushering us through the ward door in silence. As the door closed behind us I heard a finality in the snick of the latch.

I turned to James.

“Do you fancy a pint?” I suggested.

“That sounds like a splendid idea!” responded James, and arm in arm we set off down the winding corridors that held madness behind their closed doors.

  
  



End file.
